


Autumn 1993: The End

by Jane0Doh



Series: The Hand of God [8]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Canonical Character Death, Castiel Whump (Supernatural), Death in Childbirth, Demon Deals, Discussion of Abortion, Drag Queens, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Character Death, Older Man/Younger Man, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25247551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane0Doh/pseuds/Jane0Doh
Summary: The one where Castiel meets Crowley, and all hell breaks loose.
Relationships: Castiel/Benny Lafitte, Castiel/Crowley (Supernatural)
Series: The Hand of God [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/958443
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	Autumn 1993: The End

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all!
> 
> Firstly, I just wanted to say a resounding THANK YOU. All of you, with your support and gentleness, have inspired me to go back to this series. I hit a bit of a creative desert, that started when I went back to school, and only got worse as time went on. To anyone who has ever felt like they just cannot write, or draw, or do anything creative, where looking at the blinking cursor on the page makes you feel like a complete and abject failure, I feel you. I was there, and it SUCKED.
> 
> But, y’all… seriously, you stuck through it, and your comments really helped. I started another series to see if I could get into the swing of things again, and lo and behold, it worked! I was able to jump back into this series with abandon, and I couldn’t be happier with how it’s turning out. And honestly, it’s all because of you guys. Thank you, sincerely.
> 
> Now, a note about this installment:
> 
> I want to make it perfectly clear from the get go that Castiel and Crowley’s relationship, as depicted here, is NOT HEALTHY. They are not a good couple, and they are not meant to be. Obviously, I tried to keep it nuanced (in the realm of fiction, they are real people, after all), but I want to stress that their relationship is very, very unhealthy. Crowley is abusive, controlling, and manipulative, an older man who should know better, who grooms Castiel from a young age. He takes advantage of a young, naïve, desperate boy (and that is what Cas is at the beginning of this installment: a BOY), and uses him, whatever his reasons may be (because this is Castiel’s retelling, and Castiel has no fucking clue). He wants to control, he wants to exert power over someone who is weaker than him, and unfortunately, Castiel is the one he sets his sights on. This is not a happy couple, though they may have their moments, and I wanted to stay as true to that fact as possible.
> 
> I also stressed a great deal over what age Castiel should be when their relationship starts. Due to the nature of their relationship, I wanted him to be over the age of consent, though he still needed to be young enough that Crowley would be able to manipulate him in the manner he does. Because of this, I decided to start off this installment with Castiel at age 17, meaning when he and Crowley get together, he is just 18, a few years over legal age of consent (16) in DC. I wasn’t comfortable with him being any younger, and to be fair, he doesn’t need to be. Crowley is 40 years old—Cas is 18… that’s gross enough, thank you. And it’s enough to underscore how harmful their relationship is, even on a surface level.
> 
> With all that said, please HEED THE TAGS. I tried to be as thorough as possible, to avoid any triggers. If you are worried about any specific trigger that may not be clear from the tags, please feel free to comment and ask before you read! I don’t want anyone putting themselves in harms way from reading something I wrote, that would break my heart.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for sticking with me folks! And for those heading on, thanks for reading.
> 
> XOXO  
> -JD

**September 27 th, 1993**

When Kelly Kline traded her parent’s four story (including the attic) walk up for an exorbitantly priced, closet-sized bachelor apartment in New York City, she swore she’d only be back for Christmas and the odd milestone birthday. She packed her meagre belongings in a single carry-on suitcase, swallowed the homesickness that was already filling her with trepidation as she boarded the train, and told herself not to look back.

A 22-year-old on a mission, a recent graduate of Georgetown University and the first in her family to obtain any sort of academic accolades, she was leaving the monotony of her childhood home behind. She packed the memory of those red papered walls and tall, uncompromising windows away for when she truly missed them, when she craved the lost love and stability of her mother, the stalwart sternness of her father, and the life she’d grown into within the steadfast confines of its many cluttered rooms.

So naïve, so determined was she, that when the most charming, captivating man she’d ever met in her young life swooped down to knock her off her feet, she didn’t realize he was nothing but a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Not until it was too late.

When Kelly returned to her parent’s four story (including the attic) walk up as a 24-year-old woman, unemployed, pregnant, and out of options, it wasn’t a welcome homecoming. The red papered walls and uncompromising windows that had seemed so grand and regal to a young girl now felt like a prison. She cried on her father’s lap as he sat helplessly with her on foyer stairs, Kelly’s meagre belongings— packed into the same suitcase she’d departed with— lying at their feet.

She moved back into the same bedroom she’d grown up in. She packed her clothes into the same dresser she painted with sunflowers and daffodils as a child, when she was sick of the monotonous red, and craved something bright and happy. She made the same bed she’d slept in since she hit her growth spurt at 12-years-old, when she sprang up three inches over the summer and stretchmarks bloomed on her hips and thighs like ink across unblemished paper. She stood naked in front of the mirror she’d glimpsed herself in all her life— in her christening gown, her prom dress, the outfit she wore on her first date with David Corrigan in the sixth grade— only this time, she squeezed her palms into her abdomen, still flat, but not for much longer.

With a broken heart, no job, and no direction she wished, however vile it was, that she could push from her body the thing that had absconded her own. She willed her hands to pass through her flesh, to pluck from her womb the child that grew inside of her, the one who had stolen his affections and soured him to her, who had compelled him to send her away with nothing to show for her work or her time but ten-thousand-dollars, a non-disclosure agreement and a pregnancy she had never wanted.

She hated it.

She hated herself.

As the months passed, Kelly wished more than anything for her mother. She craved her touch, her kind words, her comfort. Her father tried, but Chuck was as cuddly as a mountain lion, and as emotionally available as the tin-man. Her belly grew along with the rest of her. She felt heavy, and constantly sore. Her feet swelled, her back ached and the baby that had derailed her life pressed against her bladder, meaning that for all the time she spent in the bathroom already, vomiting up whatever food she managed to keep down, she may as well just move her belongings in and live there.

She went to her doctors’ appointments because she had to—it was in the agreement she’d signed. She was not to abort the baby, and she was to take care of herself and it until the time of its birth. Then, if she decided to give it away, she would do so to a good, Christian family, one that was thoroughly vetted by the lawyer assigned by the baby’s father. And no matter what she decided to do with it once it was born, she was to give it an appropriate name; the name of an angel, just as its father requested.

Kelly often wondered, if he had no interest in being the child’s father, why was he so obsessed with its name? But she couldn’t think too hard on it—whenever she did, whenever she let her mind wander back to her two years in New York, before she’d fucked it all up beyond repair, she couldn’t stop the bitter, angry tears from falling.

The Carlisle’s were nice people. They were an older married couple who waited until they’d lived the life they wanted before deciding to have children, but by then their bodies would no longer cooperate. They were wealthy, old money elites with a passion for the arts, and it seemed they would take good care of the baby. But while Kelly was convinced they were the parents she’d been searching for, her father disagreed. He never said anything to her; it wasn’t his way. But whenever she spoke of them, he grew quiet. His gaze would become distant, and he would steal himself away to one of the upstairs rooms for hours, locked in one of the dusty old quarters that hadn’t housed a living person since before Kelly was born.

One day, her curiosity getting the best of her, she followed him. She matched his pace, just steps behind him as he crept up the main staircase to the second floor. She trailed him through the servant’s doors to the second story staircase, up the enclosed and winding hallway and into the little alcove that opened into the third floor. And when he snuck through the locked door at the end of the antechamber, she was right behind him, struck dumb in the doorway, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

This room that had functioned as a glorified storage locker for years was one no longer. The crumbly wallpaper had been peeled away, replaced with a periwinkle blue dotted with fluffy white clouds. The splintered wooden floors that used to catch holes in her socks as she walked between stacks of boxes and old, sheet covered furniture had been sanded down, re-sealed and covered with downy blue rugs, toys, and dolls, most of which she recognized as her own from when she was a child. There was a white crib in the corner, a rocking chair that belonged to her mother, a bookshelf which lined the far wall, and the windows were open for the first time in what must have been a decade, a cool summer breeze wafting gently through, spinning the hand carved mobile that would hang over her baby’s head.

The sentimental fool had turned it into a nursery for a baby she wasn’t planning to keep.

“I know you’re angry,” her father said, pointing to her belly, “I know you think that he ruined your life, and you’ll never make it right so long as he’s around.” He sat heavily in the rocking chair, wincing at the ache in his bones, “But he’s no more at fault than you, Kell; you two have that in common. Place your blame where it belongs, and if you still want to give him away, then I wouldn’t dream of telling you no. But if you do change your mind, there’s a place for both of you here, and neither of you will ever be alone.”

As if in agreement, the baby chose that moment to kick her hard in the lungs, stealing her breath away. It was the first time she’d felt it move. That was a foot pressing against her, a little person rolling underneath her skin and it had a great sense of comedic timing, apparently. She laughed despite the lack of air, despite the little feet hammering at her ribcage. “You keep saying he,” she said, her voice welling with emotion, her world tilting off its axis, _again_ , “how do you know it’s a boy?”

Her father smiled slyly and pointed a sharp finger at her hips, “You’re all hips and ass, just like your mom was with your brother.”

Kelly stooped as best she could, snatched up a stuffed animal and chucked it at him.

She called the Carlisle’s later that night to tell them she was sorry, but she’d changed her mind.

Castiel Kline was born October 31st, 1979. He had chubby cheeks and even chubbier thighs, and he woke up every three hours like clockwork, screaming for his mother at the top of his little lungs. Kelly slept with him in her bed, against her midwifes suggestion, her hand resting atop his tiny chest just so she could feel his heart beat. She wasted what little time she had to sleep watching him breathe, his miniature fists curled by his head, his paper-thin nails smaller than anything she’d ever seen before, and she wondered at how perfect he was. She marvelled at his cute nose, his big blue eyes, and his long, dark lashes. She couldn’t believe she’d made that head of dark, wild hair, those wrinkled feet and those chubby, grabbing fists. He looked nothing like his father, and instead was the spitting image of her mom, right down to the shape of his chin.

How was it possible to love someone so much, having only known them a few days?

She raised her little boy within the same four story (including the attic) walk up that she was raised in, amongst the red papered walls and uncompromising windows of her childhood home. His room was periwinkle blue, the only room in the house that wasn’t deep, crimson, and dark, with lofted ceilings and near constant sun. He was precocious, witty, and stubborn, as adept at tugging her every nerve as he was her heartstrings, and as he got older, he only got more difficult.

It helped that he was so ungodly talented. He picked up the piano from an impossibly young age, quickly surpassing even her skills, ones she’d honed over a lifetime’s worth of lessons and higher education. And he wasn’t content with just one instrument, either—he jumped from the violin, to the guitar, to the cello, mastering every string instrument he could get his hands on. He dabbled in woodwinds and brass, but decided that, despite his aptitude for them, they bored him… by the time he was ten, he was able to tell her that anyone could pick up a clarinet and blow, but the violin took more than following directions, it took feeling.

And did he ever feel, her sweet, devious little boy. He got in more fights than she could count, but he always had a reason. He didn’t fit in with other kids, because he was different. Too smart, too talented, too unique. He stood up for himself and others, even if it meant he came home most days with a bloody nose or a split lip. He dressed how he liked, he said what he thought, and even though his life would be so much easier if he just tried to blend in, Kelly couldn’t’ fault him for it. He was who he was, and if that meant he wanted to paint his nails, or wear eyeliner, or play with dolls instead of trucks, who was she to stop him?

She wouldn’t. Instead, she cleaned his wounds when he needed, comforted him always, and switched school districts when it got to be too dangerous.

Through it all, his ups and downs, she loved him. He was her best friend, her confidant, and the pride she felt when at just 13, he was offered a place at Julliard, in a program for young people who showed a notable aptitude for music. It cost a fortune, more than they could rightfully afford, but she would do anything for him. He was her little boy, who by the time she got pregnant with her second son, was no longer so little.

Like the first, Kelly’s pregnancy was unexpected.

Unlike the first, this time she wasn’t alone.

His father might not have stuck around long enough to know he existed, but Castiel was her rock. He moved to a room down the hall, taking with him his most treasured possessions: his violin, his makeup, and his record collection. He didn’t make things easy on himself; her sweet boy had a habit of taking the hard route, and eating the consequences. But he never compromised who he was, and when he coopted making over the baby’s room, Kelly let him take the reins. He was going to be the best big brother; she could feel it.

Jackson Kline was born July 1st, 1993. He was small, but healthy, with a set of lungs to match. He had eyes like his brother, and when he scowled, they looked so alike you might mistake him and Cas for father and son. But Kelly never got to see that. She held Jack once, his little body swaddled against her chest after a long, arduous labour. And when he was trundled off, she fell asleep, a smile on her face despite the bone deep exhaustion, and a fleeting awareness that something felt different this time.

She never woke up again. 

It was painless, the doctors told Castiel and Chuck in an empty room, one painted with cartoon bee’s and flowers, and enough tissue boxes that when he sat them down, Cas already knew to expect the worst. An aneurism. Quick, virtually untraceable—a freak accident. They said they were sorry for their loss, asked if there was anything they could do, anyone they could call, but Chuck shook his head. There was no one left but the two of them. The doctor handed Castiel a card before he left them to their grief. “It might make things easier for you,” he said, and while he meant well, one look at the business card in his hand, the word ‘adoption’ preceding the name of the lawyer, turned Castiel’s stomach.

He crumpled it up and threw it back at the doctor, who was so caught off guard he fumbled it onto the floor. Both the doctor and Chuck stared at him in shock, unblinking as he hissed through his tears, “ _No one is taking my brother away_.”

He’d already lost one member of his small family that day—Cas would be damned if he’d lose another.

Along with Chuck, their pen-to-paper guardian, Castiel brought Jack home to their three story (the attic was useless now, piled through with junk) walk up, with it’s red papered walls and uncompromising windows, and tried to ignore how empty it felt. Chuck went straight to his room with a bottle of scotch, locking the door behind him, leaving Cas and his new infant brother alone in the foyer, his mother’s shoes by the door, her keys in the bowl underneath the hat rack, and he tried to be brave. But when he looked down at the baby in his arms, watched him curl his lip and fuss, he saw her there. And as his grandfather’s sobs echoed down the stairs Cas slid down the door, his legs splaying out in front of him and the baby cradled to his chest as he joined him, a chorus of bereavement filling their large and empty house.

And a month later, things weren’t looking much better.

Kelly Kline kept a strict home for a reason. They lived comfortably, but money was always tight, and if their grandfather refused to leave his solemn house, they would have to make due in other ways. They sold furniture and antiques when times got tough, they scrimped and saved everywhere they could, and while Castiel never wanted for much, he knew that without his mother there, the mere act of surviving to the next day was going to be rough. He wasn’t prepared for _how_ rough it would get, however.

Not even a month since her death, a 17-year-old Castiel sat at the head of the long, mahogany dining table in the parlour room, the eight empty chairs in a row on either side pointing towards the grandfather clock against the wall, which ticked at him incessantly. Over the table, between his elbows as he held his weary head in defeat, lay a scattered carpet of bills and invoices, notepads with scribbled maths and a calculator that kept callously coming up with the same negative number, no matter what he tried. His grandfather lay passed out, intoxicated and useless on the couch upstairs, and the television droned through the cracks in the ceiling along with his snores.

He was more drunk than sober, those days.

Jack gurgled in a swing next to Cas’ feet, his little grabby fists waving in the air in front of him, not reaching for anything, just testing their range of motion. He’d been moving more, kicking his legs, or wheeling his arms. All the books Cas read had told him this was normal at this stage of development; he was learning how to control his muscles, learning to move.

Cas smiled at him when he caught his eye, and Jack gleefully kicked his legs.

Gently rocking the swing with his foot, Castiel turned back to his inheritance—a butt load of debt and expenses, and no savings to speak of. Chuck wouldn’t sell the house, and his pension only covered their property tax and the electric bill. They still needed to come up with enough to keep the water running, the heat on and food in their bellies. Jack used cloth diapers, but the laundry was becoming an enormous chore, one Castiel could barely keep up with while working full-time, and he never would have _dreamed_ how expensive formula was. And even after dropping out of school pretty much the day his mother died, giving up his prized place at Julliard, and working in the kitchen at the Marriott on Capitol Hill, he wasn’t making near enough.

Chuck was useless. A part of Castiel knew he shouldn’t be to hard on him—he’d lost his wife, his son, and now his daughter, and was left with two bastard grandsons to look after, one of whom Cas was certain he blamed for Kelly’s death. He refused to look at Jack most days, and when he did, it was with such thinly veiled animosity that Castiel didn’t feel comfortable leaving Jack alone in a room with Chuck for any significant amount of time.

He thought that he might blame Jack too, at first. He thought he might hold him accountable for stealing the life of his mother. But the first night they’d brought him home, as Cas sat sobbing on the foyer floor, next to the piano his mother used to play in the early hours of the morning, Cas fell in love.

Just three days old, no more aware than a bat pulled from its den into the light of day, Jack wrest his pudgy fingers from his swaddling and pressed them to Cas’ cheek. It was an involuntary movement, and he doubted Jack even knew that hand was attached to his body yet, but it made him look down all the same. Enveloped in a garish blue blanket, a little yellow cap on his downy head, this baby in his arms was a stranger to him, and yet when Castiel looked at his wrinkly red face, his round, undefined cheeks, and his small, _impossibly small_ features, he couldn’t help but balk at how utterly helpless he was. He was entirely ignorant of everything that was happening, of how Castiel’s whole world had fallen apart in the span of one day, and in that moment, he knew he couldn’t hate him.

This was a little life in his arms, a whole human being whose entire existence hinged on him. It was as terrifying a responsibility as it was awe inspiring, and Castiel swore to take care of him.

And he’d do it with or without Chuck’s help.

There was something else Cas wasn’t privy to whilst his mother was around; his grandfather had quite the slew of nasty habits. Chuck was a drinker. He spent every night at the VFW with his navy buddies, and had been doing so since before Cas was born, but what he didn’t know was the breadth of his illness. He didn’t understand until he was older that his grandpa’s red-rimmed, watery eyes were the result of his drinking, or that the stench of his breath was from whisky and liver disease. He didn’t recognize the signs until he started playing in bars, becoming acquainted with the regulars that lined the counters at the establishments his band performed at, and it was all thanks to Kelly.

Kelly, who hid her father’s addictions the best she could, even when he would borrow money from anyone who would lend it to him when he needed a quick fix. She even managed to sweep his gambling under the rug, though the results of it were clearly creeping up on her, if the state of their finances were any indication.

Those were a lot of red numbers on the bills in front of him. A lot of threatening letters, too. And Cas could count on both hands how many intimidating, to outright violent messages he’d taken for his grandfather over the phone, from beleaguered friends wanting their ten-thousand-dollar payback, to loan sharks looking for three times that much—and _they_ didn’t _ask_.

“I need another job,” he told Jack, who puckered his forehead and blew spit bubbles between his lips. Tearing a sheet full of useless addition from the top of his notepad, he started a rudimentary list of options. “I can talk to the guys and see if we can scrounge together a few high paying gigs,” he said, tapping his lower lip with the pen. Jack grumbled and flailed his arms as though in distaste, and Cas canted his head thoughtfully, “You’re right, that wouldn’t work. I’d be spending all the money I made on babysitters.”

He scratched that one out, and hammered the cap of the pen off the notepad.

“We could sell more of the stuff in the attic,” he mused, and Jack squealed. Cas smiled fondly at him, rocking him again with is foot, putting a checkmark next to that idea on his list. “What about busking?” he asked Jack, who furrowed his brow, “Like, playing guitar on the street? It’s still warm enough you could come with me. You could be my cute, mute, illiterate groupie?”

Jack smacked his lips thoughtfully before hammering his heels against the edge of his swing, like a judge banging a gavel. _Busking it is,_ Cas thought as the circled it on the list. It wasn’t a long-term solution, but it might get some of these debt collectors off his back.

Something thumped upstairs, followed by a groan and a vicious curse. The floor creaked under his grandfather as he supposedly picked himself up off the floor, and both Cas and Jack followed the sound with their eyes as he stomped his way up the stairs to the third story, most likely intending to spend the night in Kelly’s room again. Just like he’d done every day since Jack’s birth.

Swiveling in his seat, Cas unbuckled Jack from his swing and lifted him into his arms, supporting his lolling, tired head in the crook of his elbow. “It’s okay,” he murmured, using the cuff of his shirt sleeve to wipe some drool from the corner of Jack’s mouth, “we’re going to be okay. I’ll take care of us.” His back to their troubles, he repeated it over again, as though if he said it enough, it would come true, “We’re gonna be fine.”

**October 1 st**

Cas nodded his thanks at a well-dressed business woman when she tossed a couple dollars in his guitar case, never once pausing the steady strumming of the six-string in his lap. Jack grumbled next to him, his eyebrows furrowing as he scowled, his eyes the only part of his face visible between his scarf and hat. He was thrashing his little arms around in his stroller, getting more frustrated by the second as he wanted to move, wanted to roll around but couldn’t, confined by both the straps of his stroller and his winter onesie, and Cas could already tell there wasn’t much time before he had a total meltdown on his hands.

For all that he was normally a mild-mannered kid, Jack was still a baby, and he had a scream that could break the sound barrier when he felt ignored.

A couple gentlemen dropped some dollars at his feet and hovered, listening as he belted out the same, generic songs that people who frequented Meridian Hill park wanted to hear. Hallelujah, Hey Jude, that one song from Lynyrd Skynyrd that Cas couldn’t stand, but got most middle-aged dads to empty their wallets, so he played anyways. A quick glance at his case showed he’d made a decent amount of money for three hours of work (thanks in part to Jack; the young, single parent angle worked out in his favour on the Hill, apparently), but it wasn’t nearly enough to make a dent in his expenses.

 _Oh well,_ he mused. _Least I can get dinner and smokes, tonight._

It was only a matter of time until Jack got fed up, however. Curling his fists into tight little balls, he scrunched his eyes shut and opened his mouth soundlessly, and Cas knew what was coming. It was the calm before the storm. He watched in dismay as Jack’s tiny face got progressively redder, washing over him like a wave from his chin to the top of his head, and when the wail he was building in his chest broke free, Cas dropped his head and sighed. The two men who were happily bobbing their heads to Cas’ acoustic rendition of House of the Rising Sun balked, taken aback by the sudden appearance of the squawking baby they hadn’t yet noticed.

They beat a hasty retreat, their hands shoved in the pockets of their overcoats, murmuring something amongst themselves, only to be stopped by a young, blonde woman at the fountain’s edge. She reached out a hand, grabbing one of them by the arm and drawing both of their attention, and pointed over to Castiel, her expression stern and her voice soft. The two men hesitated, casting uneasy glances between themselves, then over to Cas, before one of them nodded their head. He came back, miraculously, with an open wallet and emptied his change into Cas’ case, along with a twenty from his buddy, before taking off once more, the woman who had stopped them staring satisfied in their wake.

Cas might have thanked him, but he a screaming baby to attend to. He’d just had a bottle, just had his diaper changed, and he certainly had to be warm enough, so Castiel reasoned he must be bored. Luckily, he had a fix for that. Shifting onto the park bench beside Jack’s stroller, Cas continued to play, his fingers flying deftly over the strings, still singing about feet on trains and platforms, but now he was singing at _Jack_.

His mood improved instantly, as predicted. He might only have known Jack for a few months, but Cas learned early on that he craved attention, and loved the sound of Cas’ voice. During the first few weeks of sleep deprivation, when Cas struggled to get Jack down for bed, in a fit of desperation and on the edge of frustrated tears, Cas had laid Jack down in bed with him, and started to sing. He hadn’t the energy to rock him anymore, his legs and arms were like jelly, his brain was fried, and there was nothing more he could do than lay the baby down on the mattress beside him, put his hand on his heaving, little chest and quietly blubber out a couple of verses.

“I go to sleep, sleep,” Cas had crooned, rubbing his hand in soothing circles over Jacks belly, his head pillowed in the crook of his elbow, “and imagine that you’re there with me.”

“I was wrong, I will cry,” he sang quietly, his natural vibrato filling his small bedroom, slowly encroaching over the stuttering, halting cried of his baby brother, “I will love you till the day I die.”

“You were all, you alone and no one else,” he soothed, relief washing over him in a heady rush as Jack sniffled, his cries tapering off into wet, calm breathing, his head turning slightly so he could watch Castiel with his red-rimmed baby-blues, unblinking, “you were meant for me.”

And when Jack finally slipped off into a long fought for sleep, Cas wept in joyous relief, a proud grin stretched across his face as he spent what little time _he_ had to catch a few hours watching this perfect little human breathe, his hand on his chest just to feel his heartbeat.

To that day, the only way to get Jack to sleep, to eat, to calm down— anything, really— was for Cas to sing to him. Only Cas, and no one else.

He finished his song towards the stroller, his eyes on Jack the whole time, and the change was immediate. Once he’d captured the full attention of his favorite person in the world, Jack stopped crying, a gummy smile peaking up over the edge of his scarf. He squealed and kicked his legs, his gloved hands grabbing his toes and pulling his legs up towards his head in glee, and Cas laughed, faltering mid verse.

“You think you’re pretty cute, don’t you?” he asked, placing his guitar gently on the ground by his feet. He unbuckled Jack’s harness and picked him up, as Jack gurgled his delight. “Yeah, you do,” Cas said, holding Jack up by his underarms, his fingers supporting the back of his neck as he pulled him close and kissed his cheeks incessantly, relishing in the happy little squeaks Jack rewarded him with. When he laid him down of his lap, Jack wiped at his face inelegantly, knocking his hat half-off and losing a mitten in the process, and Castiel shook his head with a smile, righting his clothes, completely unaware that the blonde woman from earlier was now standing beside him.

“You’re good,” she said, startling him.

Cas jerked awkwardly, jostling Jack in his lap. “Thank you,” Cas said as he looked at her warily, letting Jack grab hold of his frozen fingers and manipulate his hands as he saw fit.

He’d never met this woman before in his life, but for some reason she was taking it upon herself to chat with him like an old friend. “You in a band?” she asked, “Or is this a solo gig?”

Who the heck was she? What did she want? And what was with the questions? “I’m in a band…” he said, glancing her over, “I think.”

She was maybe in her mid-twenties, Cas surmised, watching as she pursed her pretty lips, saying, “That doesn’t sound good.”

Cas shrugged his shoulders, shifting the baby in his lap into his arms, so Jack could rest his heavy head on Cas’ chest. “They’re not too thrilled about scheduling practice around a three-month-old’s sleeping schedule.”

“Really?” She shook her head in disbelief, her bleach blonde curls bouncing against her shoulders. “Who wouldn’t be keen on this little cutie?” Jack jerked backwards, frowning at her as she leaned forwards, her hands on her knees and her face suddenly in his space, “What’s his name?”

Cas shuffled further down the bench, “Jack.”

“Hi Jack!” She smiled brightly and stepped close again, either completely ignorant of or willfully disregarding Cas’ attempts to disengage, “Is it just the two of you, then? Where’s his mom?”

His throat clenched uncomfortably as the mostly one-sided conversation veered into uncharted territory. He hadn’t had occasion to talk about his loss with anyone outside of his friend Abby, and so far, the name of the game seemed to be denial. The last thing he wanted to do was get into it with a stranger. “His mom was my mom,” Cas said simply, laying Jack back into his stroller despite the way he fussed, and quickly buckled him in, “He’s my brother.”

“Oh,” the woman said, her put-on sweetie-pie voice slipping as she was finally real with him, for the first time over the course of their short interaction, “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Cas slid his guitar case over with his foot, quickly glancing at his haul before loading his guitar up, “It won’t change anything.”

“Who’s taking care of you?” she asked earnestly.

He latched the case shut and slung it over his shoulder, intent on getting out of there ten minutes ago, “I am.”

“That’s why you’re out here?”

There was no judgment in her tone, but Cas bristled all the same. He clasped his fists tightly around the handle of the stroller, his temper flaring so intensely he had to remind himself to breathe. Jack looked worriedly between the two of them, his forehead puckered, and Cas blew out a deep, grounding breath. He couldn’t lose his head, not in front of the baby. “What’s with the interrogation?” he demanded, glaring over his shoulder but keeping his voice level, so as not to frighten Jack.

She took a quick step back, cowed by the ferocity of his gaze, and held her hands up in deference. “I’m not judging! Just—it’s going to be getting cold soon, and I doubt this little guy’s gonna be as open to sitting out in the snow.” Cas rolled his eyes and turned back to Jack, kicking the brakes up on his wheels and he started to walk away. “Hey,” she stopped him, hurrying to the other side of the stroller to halt him in his tracks, “listen. I’m not trying to poop on your pancakes, alright? I’m actually looking for a bar back at my club. It’s a little hole in the wall, but it would be steady work, and so long as you can follow simple directions and carry your weight in kegs, its an easy enough job. Besides, you fit the aesthetic.”

Cas snorted, and rerouted the stroller, walking past her. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Jesus, she was tenacious. She ran ahead again, this time standing right in front of him, “I know it’s out of the blue, but—”

As she went to lay her hands atop the stroller Cas snatched it back and hissed, “I’m not a charity case. I don’t need your hand outs.”

Her expression fell, suddenly. While at first, she was forcibly cheerful, this time his words seemed to have some effect on her. She faltered, growing quiet, as though Cas had knocked all sense of reason from her head. Pressing her lips together in a firm line, she regarded him with a sense of pity and understanding that Cas felt he should be offended by—but he wasn’t. He didn’t have the means. “I’m sure you don’t,” she said sincerely, fishing a business card out of her purse and handing it to him, “but in case you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” he answered immediately, despite taking the card from her hand.

“That’s fine, too.” _Lilith._ Her name was Lilith—so said her card. “Take care, guys,” she said, waving her fingers, and giving him a small, sympathetic smile before shoving her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket and strolling off into the park.

Cas watched her go, before glancing down at the card. She hadn’t been lying: she had a club, she was the owner, and it was called The End, according to the card. He figured it could have been a forgery, but that would be insane and elaborate, and while she was nosy and irritating, she didn’t seem unstable.

“What do you think?” he asked Jack, pocketing it, “Should I take a job offer from a strange woman in the park?”

Jack squirmed and spit up on himself.

Cas sighed, “I guess that’s a no, then.”

**October 10 th**

People were staring.

As a masculine-presenting person who routinely dressed as a girl, Cas was used to capturing the attention of strangers, and it usually wasn’t the good kind. Sure, there were the few girls who would compliment his outfits, and the groups of strange men who would catcall him as he walked to a gig in full drag, but for the most part it was hollered, homophobic threats and old folks glaring in shuttered disgust.

So, why did this feel any different?

Maybe it was because he was sitting in the middle of a crowded café in the wealthier part of town on a Tuesday afternoon, when all the suits were out grabbing lunch. Maybe it had something to do with the fact he hadn’t a good night’s sleep in months, hadn’t showered in weeks, and was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that was stained with either spit-up or formula. Or maybe it was the screaming, practically bleating three-month-old that was thrashing in his lap, his face red with the force of his cries and his breathing a stuttered hiccup in between fits of wailing.

That had to be it. As he sat across from two out of three of his band-mates, both of which were slouching in their seats and looking around like Jack’s crying was humiliating for _them_ , Cas was distinctly aware of all the strange people who were staring at him. All the suits and their clients, the lawyers and the business men who glared at him, some shaking their heads in frustration, some plugging their ears and shouting to be heard over Jack’s howling, and others muttering amongst themselves, no doubt expressing their doubt over Cas’ parenting abilities.

It wasn’t his fault, no more than it was Jack’s. He was just tired—overly so, as he’d not slept on the bus ride over like Cas had hoped. He’d been kept up by a well-meaning elderly woman who had insisted on playing with him, winding him up and getting him so energized that by the time Cas had arrived at the coffee shop, he was crashing hard. The obvious solution was to take Jack home and let him relax in a familiar place, close to where Cas could put him down when he finally passed out, but he couldn’t leave yet.

Bouncing Jack in his lap, Cas sized up his band-mates who were sitting in front of him, separated by the marble table, their fancy, expensive coffees steaming and untouched atop it.

No, he had a job to do.

Cas huffed and leaned forwards, tucking Jack’s head into the crook of his neck so Liam and Brad could hear him. “What do you mean ‘no one will book us?’” Cas demanded, rubbing Jack’s back soothingly, “Did you talk to Harry?”

Liam crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. “Yeah, I mean—I’ve seen him.”

“And he’s got nothing for us?” Cas huffed, “Just a few months ago we were drowning in gigs, but now he can’t even get us an opener at the Shadow? That place is a dive!”

Liam didn’t budge. He didn’t even look at him, but Brad was more amenable. “He said he’s got a couple of things lined up for us,” he said, spinning his coffee cup, also refusing to look at Cas.

“Oh, good.” That was a relief… shows meant money, and money meant he could start knocking off some of his grandpa’s more venomous debt collectors. “When?” he asked, shushing Jack when he gave a particularly loud sob, “Where?”

Brad flinched, but didn’t answer. He glanced over at Liam and pulled a curious face, before going back to his mug guiltily.

Liam sighed. “For _us_ , Cas.”

 _Wait_ …

“Am I missing something?” Cas asked, looking to Liam for an explanation, but getting none. The other man returned to his previous stoicism, glaring at the baby in Cas’ arms before staring at something in a different part of the café.

“Just Liam, Drew and I,” Brad explained.

Cas gawked at him, his eyes narrowing as his words sunk in. “You’re fucking joking,” he breathed, too stunned to be mad.

“Look, I’m sorry. It wasn’t our idea—but Harry just doesn’t trust you.” Brad waved a hand in front of him, gesturing at all Cas’ had going on, screaming baby and spit-up stains included, “You’ve been off the radar the last few months—”

“My _mother died._ ” Cas interjected, venom creeping into his tone.

“And the kid, dude.” Liam clicked his tongue, “How are we supposed to believe you’d put the band over him? How are you gonna play a fucking show when you have a _baby_? Are you gonna take him along? No, you’re gonna bail.”

Cas scoffed, his eyes widening. He could barely string a sentence together he was so dazed, so angry. He’d come there to ask them to get back together, to work on a new EP, on booking a few shows. He never anticipated they’d be _dumping_ him. “This is fucking priceless—” he stammered, dumbfounded, “I’m the fucking hook. The whole reason we’ve been blowing up is because of _me_!”

“That’s not fair,” Brad said.

Liam snapped, “You sing in a wig, big fucking deal.”

Jack whimpered in his arms, beating his fists against Cas’ chest, but he hardly registered it. “You weren’t saying that when I was getting you in the door.” He couldn’t believe they would do this to him. They’d been friends for years; how could they _do this to him?_ “You two were just jamming in your dad’s garage before I came along. I got us attention, I got—”

“You did.” Brad assured him, though it came as little consolation. “We know you did.”

“Then how can you just…” Cas sniffled, wiping at his eyes, mortified as he started to cry. Jack had calmed a little, probably cowed by the change in Cas’ demeanor, and his wet little snivels echoed Cas’, “How can you just dump me? That’s what you’re doing, right? You’re kicking me out?”

Brad winced, and looked back down at the table. “I’m so sorry.”

It was so final, such a decisive apology, that it sounded to Cas like a door slamming shut.

He’d built their band. He hadn’t lied when he said Brad and Liam wouldn’t amount to anything on their own—they were passable musicians, technically skilled, but they had no star power. They could get up on stage and play the most beautiful melodies, could rip through progressions like no one else he knew, but they were about as interesting to watch as blocks of wood. Drew was a little better, but he was a drummer. He’d always be fun to watch for a while, but no one came to a show to watch the drummer unless they were Neil Peart.

Drew was good, but he wasn’t _Rush_ good.

Cas was the one to pluck them from obscurity and give them a fighting chance. He was a fantastic guitarist with great musical instinct, and on top of that, he had his voice and charisma. He’d had a promoter tell him once, whilst snorting lines of coke from his Israeli cousin and pawing at Castiel’s fishnet clad thighs in the greenroom after a show, that Cas was the best thing his bandmates could ever have hoped for. He was their golden goose; without him, they’d still be slogging it, playing at open mic nights out of town. He was the one who got up on stage in front of crowds ranging from ten to a thousand, looking like a jailbait Siouxsie Sioux, and knocked their fucking jaws to the ground.

He made them who they were by virtue of his talent alone.

How could they do this to him?

“You don’t understand, I need this,” Cas pleaded, tears falling freely now and he cried without aplomb, his heart pounding in desperation, “I need the money, Brad. Please.”

Brad’s brow tented, and he looked at Cas sympathetically, but if he were going to say anything, Liam cut him off before he had the chance. “We don’t have a choice Cas,” he snapped, “what, do you expect us to just steamroll our careers because you decided to fuck up your life?” Jack wriggled against him, kicking his legs against Cas’ stomach as he started to cry once again, forcing Liam to shout over him, airing Cas’ dirty laundry for everyone to gawk at. “You made your bed, dude. You didn’t have to keep the kid, but you did, so now you get to deal with the consequences,” Liam said, each word dripping with derision, and he glared once more at Jack, looking more and more like a petulant child with every second that passed by. “Take some fucking responsibility for yourself.”

Two men at the table next to them started to snicker, and a woman across the café gasped. Cas choked on his words, his mouth falling open in surprise, the weight of Liam’s judgement stinging like salt to an open wound. This had been his friend only months ago—what the hell changed?

 _Fuck him._ Cas stood suddenly, looping Jack’s diaper bag over his shoulder, and knocking his chair to the ground in the process. It clattered loudly, and the same woman who had gasped at Liam’s venomous tirade did so again, this time with her hand held over her mouth like an aghast Victorian debutante. “Jesus Christ, relax lady!” Cas snapped at her, kicking the chair even further across the floor, partly to prove a point and partly to get it out of the way of his stroller, which he pulled one-handed behind him as he told Liam, “Go to hell.”

“Cas!” Brad called after him, but he was wasting his breath. Cas was already out the door, kicking it shut behind him and counting a small victory of the way it rattled in the doorframe, the bell cracking loudly in his wake.

Finally free of the tension of the coffee shop, something he couldn’t possibly understand, Jack began to howl in earnest. “Shh, baby,” Cas attempted to soothe him, but he was wriggling in his hold, teetering dangerously on the edge of Cas’ ability to wrangle him with one arm, and Cas was still pulling the stroller along by a single wheel. With a sharp, rattling breath, Cas ducked off the city street, where more people were newly _staring_ , and headed down the alley that led to the back of the coffee shop he’d stormed from.

There was no one there, blessedly. He couldn’t take another mournful gaze, well meaning or not. “Please, Jack,” he begged, sniffling. Jack wasn’t letting up, and he was getting more upset by the second, his sobs turning into hiccups, turning into screams as he lamented how upset he was by the situation in the shop.

Honestly though, Cas agreed with him. He’d hedged all his bets on being able to get back together with his band, one he never realized he’d unceremoniously been kicked out of when he decided not to give up his baby brother. It was the last thing he could think of to earn some quick cash, his musical ability being the only talent he had, and it blew up in his face.

Hot tears spilled over onto his cheeks, beading in his lashed and obscuring his vision. “What are we going to do?” Cas sobbed, leaning backwards against the shop’s wall, Jack balanced against his hip. He stared down at his baby brother, who’s own cries seemed to miraculously die as Cas’ began, his head resting against Cas’ heaving chest.

Jack furrowed his brow, twisting his lips like he always did when he was spoken to directly, and wiped at his puffy red cheeks with uncoordinated hands. “Here,” Cas said, his voice cracking wetly around a hiccup, and he used the edge of his scarf to wipe the snot away from Jack’s nose. If it was gross, it didn’t register—it was second nature to him at this point, and he was so accustomed to cleaning Jack’s… everything, spit up, diapers, drool, that he didn’t bat an eye at a little snot.

He caught Cas’ hand as he tried to move the scarf away, and with his tiny little fingers he pulled it back to him, cradling it with both of his own chubby hands to his chest. He was breathing easy now, his tears dried, out of the vicinity of Cas’ bandmates, who Jack had immediately decided were terrible people, as he’d started crying the instant they came into the café. But now, he was calm as could be, regarding Castiel with those somber blue eyes that practically mirrored his own, and Cas smiled despite his hurt feelings and frustration. He always seemed so wise when he was quiet, then he’d usually ruin it by crying or throwing a fit over something Cas couldn’t possibly hope to glean.

“I guess I should trust your judgement from now on, huh?” Cas asked, wiping his own running nose with his soiled scarf, and Jack babbled in agreement, “So, what do you think I should do?”

Jack grunted unintelligibly.

“Some help you are,” Cas murmured, kissing him on the forehead before laying him in his stroller. His hands were freezing, Cas realized as he let him go, and he cursed under his breath before fishing Jack’s mittens out of his pocket.

His fingers brushed past the mittens, against a sharp square of cardboard, and Cas frowned. He pulled it out as well, flipping the card in his hand.

_The End. Lilith Morningstar, Owner._

He’d forgotten all about that encounter in the park. “You liked her, right?” Cas asked Jack, as he pulled the mittens down over his hands, “She didn’t freak you out?”

Jack smacked his lips happily, and Cas took that as a yes. She’d offered him a job, right? What did he have to lose?

Kelly always used to tell him he had a guardian angel—apparently, this time they were working their magic through business cards.

**October 11 th**

Abby arrived at their house at 5pm, sharp. Cas handed Jack off for the umpteenth time, thanking her profusely as she tried to wave off his gratitude, but he wouldn’t let her. She’d been the biggest help of anyone since his mom passed, when he was suddenly saddled with all the burdens of parenthood.

Really, she’d been the only help.

“Good luck!” she wished him from the doorway, her long red hair piled up in a bun on top of her head, and Jack perched on her hip. She sounded so sure he wouldn’t need it, but Cas wasn’t as convinced, even though he waved to her sheepishly was he bounded down the stairs to the sidewalk, his bus already pulling up to the stop at the end of the street.

The bus driver had given him a once over as he flashed his transit pass, either sizing up whether he was trouble or wondering where his parents were, most likely. Cas was used to it, just as he was accustomed to the sideways glances the other passengers were shooting him, following him with their eyes, his platform boots clicking as he walked to the back of the bus. Lilith had said he fit the aesthetic, but she hadn’t truly seen him in his element.

It might cost him the job before he even got it, he mused as he took a seat, the bus chugging away from the curb on its way downtown. A skirt and a little eyeliner never hurt anybody, and besides, it was too late to go back and change, so he busied himself with smoothing out his plaid slip dress as he waited for his stop.

He wondered what kind of place The End was… he’d looked them up in the phonebook, but they weren’t listed, and he hadn’t the time to call the Better Business Association and confirm they were a real business. The name alone was suspect—who called their bar The End? Was it a joke, like this was the place you wound up at around last call? The end of the road? Why would she choose something so sinister?

And what was up with Lilith, the owner? His stomach roiled and he plucked at his fishnet tights nervously. He knew nothing about her, only that all 5’2” of her managed to strongarm two fully grown men into emptying their wallets for him, and that she was tenacious as all hell. What did she see in him to make her offer him a job, without even knowing who he was? It made him anxious. He’d lived a lot in his short 17 years, a life enough for two people, and he’d come to learn that when something seemed too good to be true, it usually was. Everyone had an ulterior motive. He just needed to suss out what Lilith’s was, and if it could be mutually beneficial.

When he got off the bus, the streets were already starting to fill. It was early for a Thursday night, a little rainy and windy, but he was in the right part of town for a crowd, in the middle of a strip of cramped businesses that made up the city’s entertainment district. There were people of all ages and social strata, meandering across the street and cutting through the throngs of cars, filled with disgruntled officer workers just wanting to get home so they could leave once more, and join them all on the town.

It took a few runs up and down the block to find the place. There was no signage, and the windows were shuttered, only the barest hint of light gleaming through the cracks. Carved into the very wood of the front door were the words, The End, engraved in big, bold letters, but otherwise the place was as non-descript as they come. Were it not for the intimidating bouncer standing in front of it, his arms crossed and his beady, bug eyes glaring at each person who crossed him, Cas might have assumed The End was closed.

He frowned as the bouncer turned away a couple of young men, though neither as young as himself, telling them to come back with better fakes or wait till they were 21. Cas had his own fake ID in his wallet, but it was trash. The same promotor he’d let snort lines off his ass had his cousin make it for him, so he could sneak Cas into his club for a private show. And since it only had to do for a night, it was the cheapest looking fake in the world. There was no way those two men had worse than him, and if they were being turned away, Cas had no chance.

That was it then, he thought somberly.

He really should have called first.

Pissed off, disappointed, and at the end of his rope, Cas leaned against the wall of the club, feeling the loud, pounding bass of dance music reverberating through the brick. He’d wasted so much time getting ready and heading down there, not to mention burning a babysitting favour from Abby—there had to be a way for him to get in. Think, he urged himself as he pulled his pack of smokes from his jacket pocket, perching one between his lips and lighting it with a weathered matchbook.

“Hey.”

Cas looked up; his eyebrows tented at the strange voice that sounded too close for comfort.

It was the bouncer. A tall, scraggly man in his late twenties, he held out an open palm just inches from Cas’ cigarette pack, and asked, “Help a guy out?”

Cas shrugged his shoulders and held the open end of the pack towards him, “Sure.”

The bouncer’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Thanks, kid,” he said, popping the cigarette in his mouth, and flicking his own zippo aflame, one that was hooked to his beltloop with a retractable bungee cord. “Thinking of sneaking in huh?” he muttered, his nasally voice stoppered when he inhaled a large cloud of smoke, blowing it out through his nose in two billowy siphons.

“Was planning on it,” Cas admitted, watching him curiously. He’d had his run ins with men like this before, and Cas knew could play him like a fiddle. And since this guy was standing between him and the club he was wanting to get into, he figured he may as well start out forthright, and go from there.

The man snorted, grinning dangerously. “Good luck getting past me,” he intoned, tapping his temple with a pointed finger, “I’m like a fox.”

“I thought foxes were the sneaky ones,” Cas said, taking a drag of his own cigarette before crossing his arms over his chest, his back against the wall, “not necessarily observant.”

“Exactly.” The man’s pointed finger left his temple, and shot up in the air. “You think you’re being sneaky, but really I’m out sneaking you, and you don’t even know.”

Cas blinked owlishly at him, his brow furrowing, and he asked, “Are you trying to say actual words right now?”

The man barked a laugh. “I sure hope so,” he said, taking another long inhale, burning half the cigarette in one go, “I’m not speaking in tongues again, am I?”

“No,” Cas said, shaking his head with a smile, “You’re not making sense, but you’re definitely doing it in English.”

“What do you want in there anyways?” the bouncer asked. He sidled up close beside him, leaning against the window and adopting Cas’ own posture, “Here for the show? You a groupie or something?”

Cas pulled Lilith’s card out of his breast pocket.

The bouncer snapped it up quickly, holding it inches from his face and narrowing his eyes, like he’d forgotten his reading glassed. He frowned, then glanced over at Castiel, sizing him up. His gaze trailed him from his feet to the top of his head, “Bar or talent?”

“Bar.” Taking the card back, Cas asked, “What do you mean by ‘talent’?”

The strange man caught his gaze and held it, running his tongue across his lips thoughtfully, his beady, rat like eyes bulging. They stood like that for an uncomfortable stretch of time, a miniscule amount of space between them, and Cas could smell the cigarette stench on his breath as it wafted towards him. He took a long drag of his smoke, burning it down to the filter this time, and when he tossed it out into traffic, the bouncer finally broke away, turning back to the door as he said, “Why don’t you head in and see for yourself.”

“Really?” Castiel asked, trailing after him.

“Yeah, really.” The bouncer hauled the large, reinforced door open, inclining his head towards it, “Hurry up, before I change my mind. Tell Lil that Alistair let you in.”

He wasn’t about to push his luck in the face of such an unexpected turn of events. Cas darted past him (Alistair, apparently; a name almost as outlandish as his own), ducking into the small entryway.

It was nothing to write home about. There were a few people here and there, lounging over the worn-down couches, vintage pieces of furniture that were probably fashionable forty years ago. A somber looking goth woman sat in the coat check, her chin resting in the cup of one of her palms, and she sized him up as he walked in, but made no move to stop him. Apparently, whomever Alistair deemed to let inside could proceed without dispute, regardless of how young they looked.

At the far end of the room was a retro set of bead curtains, serving as a partition between the outside world and in. Light filtered through the gaps, and the floor to ceiling curtains trembled with the pounding bass of the music coming from inside. He followed the beat, his fingers passing through and parting the curtains, before Castiel stepped gingerly over the precipice…

And fell immediately in love.

It smelled like beer, sweat, and weed. A thick haze of smoke clung to the high, unfinished ceilings, wafting down to kiss at the heads of the clubgoers who mingled about the thin, deep room. It was twice as long as it was wide, the front half a little more laid back for those who wanted to hold a conversation, maybe play some pool. The back was rowdier, and whatever was going on was obscured by the sea of writhing bodies, but a neon sign shone over their heads the very ethos of this space, in bright pink and yellow: Get Weird.

Cas meandered through the curtains, dodging dancing people and swimming through the crowd like a salmon upstream. It was dark, the overhead lights dimmed, and random strings of Christmas lights and scattered wall sconces illuminated the periphery of the room. Tacked to the walls were layers of band and event posters, stickers, and other paraphernalia, and on top of those were photographs, framed and hung lovingly. He approached one, then another, and another after that, stunned to see that all of them were of Lilith, standing smiling beside one famous musician or another. Patti Smith, Jello Biafra, Henry Rollins—all people Cas idolized, had been _here,_ right where he stood.

It was almost too much to bear, especially when he chanced his way through the throngs towards the bar, past the thick wall of bodies that blocked one half of the club from the other. Breaking through to the other side, Cas barely managed to catch himself on a wooden bar stool, his eyes wide as he took in the magnificent creature atop the stage.

Old-school light bulbs dotted the perimeter of the stage, and subwoofers pounded a steady beat through the crowd in time to the footsteps of the queen atop it. She was gorgeous; tall, thin, with dark brown hair and deep, endless black eyes. A gold shift dress hung down to her mid-thigh, her muscles flexing underneath her dark skin with each stomp of her lacquered pumps, and the beaded fringe of her skirt shook in time with each flick of her hips.

She was lip-syncing Mariah’s Honey, gyrating, smiling, dropping to her knees to slide tips from the outstretched, greedy hands of her captive audience, and Castiel almost missed the stool he was trying to sit on, as he was just as captivated. His elbow knocked off the bar, his bare skin sticking to the damp wood, and he hauled himself on the stool fully, remiss to embarrass himself in front of the plethora of characters in this place, though he was certain no one was looking at him. How could they be, when there was that vision up there, on stage?

Someone did, eventually. They tapped on his shoulder from behind the bar, and Cas shut his eyes, not believing his poor luck. He was clearly underage, clearly not meant to be there, and the bartender probably sussed him out immediately. So busy chiding himself for not staying near the walls, he didn’t dare look at the bartender, hoping to ignore them in favour of watching the performance for just a few moments more, when a familiar voice shouted over the dim to him, “Howdy, stranger!”

It was her, Cas realized, matching the voice to the strange woman in the park. He looked over his shoulder, finding himself face to face with Lilith, once again. She smiled sunnily at him, all bright eyes and a shark-toothed grin, her hair piled atop her head in a messy bun and sweat glistening over her bare shoulders, interrupted only by the straps of her tank top. “I was hoping you’d stop by!” she said, heaving herself up onto the bar, so she was leaning across it on her elbows, her face inches from Castiel’s to be better heard. “Enjoying the show?” she asked when he simply waved, and gestured towards the stage, “What do you think?”

Cas shook his head, his mouth agape as he struggled to put to words exactly _what_ he thought. “It’s—" he stammered, unable to express how entirely too much it was, yet simultaneously everything he’d been missing in his scant 17 years of life. “It’s incredible,” was what he settled on, and asked, “How did I not know this place existed?”

Lilith shrugged, a proud smile on her face. “We like to keep a low profile amongst the normies,” she said, tucking a wayward strand of bleach-blonde, almost translucent hair behind her ear, “Keeps the cops off our case, lets us be ourselves.”

“I never thought of myself as a normie,” Cas muttered, plucking at his fishnet tights.

“Maybe compared to us.” Reaching behind the bar, Lilith grabbed a glass and the soda gun, pouring Cas something decidedly non-alcoholic. “What happened to your band, duckie?” she asked as she slid it over, with the practised ease of someone who coaxed out sob stories from beleaguered customers for a living.

“They dumped me,” Cas replied, sipping the proffered drink. 

“Cause of the little cutie?”

“That’s what they said.”

Lilith scoffed. “That’s bullshit,” she snapped, somehow soothing the pain of his rejection. “You want to know what I think?”

“Shoot.”

She leaned in close once again, and this time, Castiel could smell her sugary perfume over the stench of the club, sweet and cheap. “They couldn’t compete with your shine,” she said, tapping her chipped nails off the bar top. She said it casually, but the way she stared into Cas’ eyes, holding his gaze, and not letting go, disclosed a sincerity that he’d not expected to find, “You made ‘em jealous.”

That simple remark made his throat clench uncomfortably, his face flush red and he didn’t like it one bit. “That’s a load of garbage.”

“Tell yourself whatever you want, but it’s true.” Sliding back down on her side of the bar, Lilith nodded to another patron, who held up two fingers and pointed to the bottle of Jack against the wall. Pouring his shots, she said to Cas, “Why do you think I offered you a job in the middle of a park without even knowing your name?”

“You felt bad for the sad, stupid kid with an infant and no money?”

She chuckled. “Maybe that was part of it.” Taking the other man’s cash, she handed him his drinks and his change, before turning her attention back to Cas, just as stern and sincere as before, much to his chagrin, “but ninety-percent was all you. You sparkle, baby. Every person there was looking at you, myself included.”

“It’s the dad rock,” Cas tried to rationalize.

“It’s _you_ , Star Power.” Lilith gave his arm a shove, and pointed to the stage, “You’re the real deal, and if you were a little older, I’d be offering you a shot up there. But for now, I’ll take you where I can get you.”

“Bar back, right?”

“Yup. Collect bottles, clean up, take out the trash and make sure the talent has everything they could ever need. I’m offering 15 an hour, full time. You up for that?”

It was almost too good to be true. “Yes,” he said, without hesitation.

“Cool,” Lilith said, wiping down the bar with a wet rag. “You start tomorrow at 5.”

Cas expected a little more than that. Some preamble at least, a bit of an interview, not her immediate acceptance. It threw him off guard, especially since she immediately went back to work, without another word in his direction. “That’s it?” he asked.

Lilith nodded. “That’s it.”

“You’re not gonna ask for my age? My resume? Criminal background check? Nothing?”

Pausing mid wipe of a particularly nasty spill, Lilith asked with complete seriousness, “You murder anyone?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t care. Besides, you think Alistair would pass a background check?” She laughed and gestured for Cas to look towards the entranceway, where Alistair sat on a stool against the doorframe, staring dumbly in towards the club, the bead curtains half draped across his head as a steady stream of underaged party-goers snuck past him into the crowd, “Dude probably took like three hits of acid before coming into work tonight.”

Cas frowned, “Is that why he was worried about talking in tongues?”

“No, that’s just a Thursday night for him.” Lilith turned to head towards the opposite end of the bar, where a sizable crowd had gathered, but paused mid-step, asking hopefully, “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Cas said, not believing his luck as he watched her go, “See you tomorrow.”

**October 15 th**

“Yo, new guy,” one of the performers called to him, as he carried an empty keg through the hallway to the back, “Castiel, right?”

Cas frowned, pursing his lips as he tried to put a name to the face. Guy, maybe, he thought to himself. This was only this second week, and he was still getting the hang of the place, but he had _technically_ met everyone. He nodded, adjusting the keg in his arms, “Preferably Cas.”

“Suit yourself,” Guy said with a shrug, his silk robe sliding down his shoulder, “but Castiel is better. More exotic, mysterious.”

“Do you need something?” Cas asked.

The door to the dressing room was cracked just wide enough that he could get his head and shoulders out into the hall, and Guy tapped his long fingernails against the doorframe as he studied Cas intently. “Yeah,” he said, almost as an afterthought, like he’d forgotten exactly what it was he’d stopped Cas for, “drop the keg.”

Cas did as he was told, and followed when the door slipped open wider, Guy vanishing around the other side of it after beckoning him to follow.

The dressing room looked like a cross between a back alley and a walk-in closet. The exposed brick walls that matched the rest of the club were in greater disarray in here, and large cracks in the grout with haphazard foam fixes dotted three of the walls. Behind Cas was the fourth wall, with the double bolted iron door that led back into the bar. The door seemed overkill when set into the slapdash, unfinished drywall, and if someone wanted in that badly, breaking the wall down would be the easier option, but it gave the performers a sense of security. Indeed, when Guy locked the bolts behind him, though Cas knew he could easily unlatch them himself, the sound of the locks thundering into place was eerily claustrophobic.

Guy led him through a maze of clothing racks, curtains of silk, polyester, and feathers parting in their wake. There was a couch in the leftmost corner of the room, old and slumping in the middle, the box having long collapsed under the strain of everything it had been put through, and when they broke through the barrier of clothes, Cas went to sit on it, only to have Guy stop him with a gentle hand on his arm, and a curled upper lip. He led Cas to a stool instead, in front of the rows of vanity mirrors and rescued desks, a contradiction of old Hollywood glamour and reclaimed garbage.

Another performer—Jason, Cas recalled his name—was already sitting at the vanity beside him, caking powder atop his foundation. Jason glanced at him from the corner of his eye, and through the haze of chalk-white powder that puffed in a cloud around his head, he glared. Unsure of what he’d done to stoke this stranger’s anger, Cas quickly looked away, fidgeting in his seat, and plucking at the heel of one boot with the toe of the other.

Guy patted Jason jovially on the back, his hand lingering against his exposed shoulder just long enough to get the message across: down, boy. Jason relaxed, just a little, his bare stomach shuddering as he released a breath he’d been holding since Cas sat down. Satisfied, Guy strode to the stool on Jason’s opposite side and sat down, plucking an eyebrow pencil from his makeup bag, and saying, “We want to talk to you.”

It took Cas a second to realize he was talking to _him_. “About what?” he asked.

“We heard you used to sing,” Jason answered, swooping on eyeliner with ease.

Cas frowned. What did this have to do with anything? “I did.”

“You don’t anymore?”

Starting to feel like he was being interrogated, like he was the butt of a joke he didn’t understand, Cas fought to reign in his temper, which flared predictably the more embarrassed he became. “No,” he bit out, “I got kicked out of my band.”

“Is this the band where you performed in drag?” Guy asked, this time.

“Yes,” Cas answered hesitantly, “How do you know about that?”

Guy shrugged, “Heard it through the grapevine.”

Jason laughed, looking at Guy in the mirror before correcting him, “Alistair can’t keep his mouth shut.” He turned to Cas, swivelling his whole body, the brush he’d been using to apply his liner poised in his hand, like a snake about to strike. “So,” he asked, “it’s true?”

“Yeah, it was kind of our schtick,” Cas said, unable to ascertain why Jason’s countenance immediately drooped, “punk band full of dudes, and me as the front woman.”

With a sharp shake of his head, Jason scoffed and tossed his brush onto the vanity, muttering, “Great.”

“Jason,” Guy said, gentler than a reprimand, but with the same connotation.

When Guy reached out to place a placating hand on his shoulder again, Jason shrugged him off. “No, I mean it,” he snapped, thrusting a pointed finger towards Cas without looking at him, “it’s nice to know there’s a snake in the nest.”

“Excuse me?” Cas demanded, not sure what was going on, but certain he’d just been insulted _._

Jason glared cattily over his shoulder. “I just like to know who I’m working with. And if you’re the kind of person who would use drag as a sideshow attraction? I now know to keep my distance.”

“Ignore him,” Guy said, leaning forwards against the vanity so he could look at Cas, “he’s just being a bitch.”

“I’m being honest,” Jason exclaimed.

This again. No wonder this felt like an interrogation. It _was,_ and it felt familiar because Cas had been giving some version of this explanation time and again his whole life. “It wasn’t like that,” he said, and when Jason rolled his eyes, Cas insisted, “It _wasn’t_.”

The brush clacked against the vanity as Jason tossed it down, crossing his arms and inclining his head towards Cas, “Then pray tell.”

Both Guy and Jason silently stared. The dressing room fell quiet, while the hum of the radiator and the music that filtered in through the door to the hall failed to quell the tension. Cas felt like he was back at school, sat in front of the principal and expected to defend himself over some inconsequential infraction. Refusing to run laps in gym class, playing his guitar outside when he was supposed to be in study hall… wearing a pleated skirt and eyeliner instead of the school mandated uniform. He thought that the one silver lining of dropping out was never needing to feel this small again. Apparently though, it wasn’t just an authority thing. It was a _him_ thing.

“It was never a ‘means to an end.’” Cas curled the first two fingers of both hands in punctuation. “I always wanted to sing, and I was always good at it, but when I thought of who I idolized, who I wanted to be, it was never Sid Vicious, or Joe Strummer… I wanted to be a Patti Smith. A Kathleen Hanna. A Debbie Harry. I wanted to be a badass, riot girl, punk-rock diva. That who I saw when I looked in the mirror, that’s how I felt the most confident, the most—I don’t know, _myself_.” He looked away sharply, “It’s stupid.”

“No,” Guy said, smiling slowly, “not at all. I get it.”

“Me too,” said Jason. His expression had softened, and almost as an apology for his earlier attitude, he slid closer to Castiel and asked, “Who taught you?”

“I taught myself,” Cas said, staying perfectly still when Jason gently cupped his chin and tilted his head, clinically examining his face, “but my mom helped with my makeup at first.”

“She sounds like a lovely woman.”

“She was.”

Guy paused in applying his lipstick, and Jason’s grip on Cas’ chin tightened. They shared a quick, somber glance in the mirror, one that only lasted a moment before Jason slid his chair back to his vanity, waving at Cas to follow him. “Come here,” he said, patting an empty chair next to him, “sit.”

Cas did as he was told, but not without a look at the door.

“Don’t worry,” Guy told him, “we’re not open yet, and if Lilith needs you, she’ll find you.”

“We won’t let you get in trouble,” Jason said, gripping Cas’ chin once more when he sat down beside him, suddenly brandishing an eyeshadow brush in his other hand, “now, sit still and close your eyes.”

The press of the brush against his eyelids was so very different from what Cas was used to. He normally just swiped whatever eyeshadow he could pilfer from CVS on with his fingers and called it a day. Jason took his time, sweeping shadow back and forth against his lids with precision and care, lining his lips instead of just smearing lipstick across them and crossing his fingers. “You’re really very pretty,” he said to Cas, using a brush to swipe lipstick between his careful lines, pillowing over Castiel’s lips as he focused on his handywork.

“Thank you,” Cas said awkwardly, not sure how to take the compliment. Jason smiled at him, then patted his cheek, turning Cas’ chair so he could look in the mirror, and Cas audibly gasped at what he saw. “Wow,” he murmured, leaning closer, the direct light of the vanity making his skin look like pale porcelain, glinting over the gunmetal glitter on his eyelids. His eyeliner swooped outwards towards the tails of his brows, and his lips were impeccable, making them appear even fuller than they already were. “ _Wow_ ,” he repeated, absolutely in awe of himself, “you did so much better than I normally do. I look—”

“You look beautiful,” Guy interjected, grinning at Cas’ enthusiasm, “How ‘bout you let us give you some tips sometime?”

A part of him jumped at the opportunity to learn how to do this to his own face. But… “There’s no point,” Cas took one last longing glance, before turning away from his reflection, “I got dumped by my band, and the one time I went to school in drag, I got my ass kicked.”

“You went to school in drag?” Jason asked, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, “ _Highschool_!?”

“Are you a masochist, or just dumb?”

Cas shrugged. “Little bit of both.”

“You should talk to Lilith,” Jason said, going back to work on his own mug, “She could probably cut you an opening slot here.”

 _If only_. Cas sighed, the racks of opulent clothes, the makeup, the shoes overshadowing the dingy, dark dressing room, turning it into something beautiful, lavish, and desirable. “I’m too young,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah.” Guy waved at him with a brush, “Don’t rub it in.”

**October 31 st **

Lilith cursed when Cas walked in, but not at him. She was standing behind the bar with the phone to her ear, the wide-brimmed, pointed hat perched on her head tilted to the side to make way for the receiver. She looked ridiculous; her anger muted by the skimpy witch costume she was wearing for Halloween.

“What’s going on?” he asked, dropping his guitar case and pulling up a seat at the bar.

Lilith clapped a hand over the mouth of the receiver, and told him, “Jason didn’t show.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” With a sigh, Lilith hung up the phone. “No one can get a hold of him, either. I’ve been talking to his boyfriend all night, but it’s been crickets so far.”

“That’s not like him,” Cas said, biting his lip. He didn’t have much loyalty to Lilith or The End, but Jason coveted his money, and Halloween was one of their most lucrative nights of the year. “Does Guy know where he is?”

Lilith rolled her eyes dramatically, snatching a glass from behind the bar and pouring herself a shot of vodka. “Not like I could ask him,” she griped, wincing as the liquor burned down her throat, “he stormed off an hour ago. Apparently, Alistair pissed him off and he just left.”

“So, there’s no one to perform tonight.”

Lilith shook her head. “Nope. And it’s too short notice to bring someone in.”

They’d been pushing Halloween night at The End for months now, they couldn’t just open their doors without something to show for it. People would lose their shit— that, or they’d just leave, and Cas’ main source of income were the tips he got at this place. He’d been counting on this night being busy and profitable so he could get Jack his next round of inoculations.

A quick bout of mental math had him tapping his fingertips against the counter, jittering his foot nervously against the rung of his stool. He needed the money (story of his life), and he couldn’t afford for tonight to be a bust, both in the immediate and the long-term. There were no regulars available, but Alistair was there, Lilith was behind the bar and they had Bradley in the kitchen… they were fully staffed, there just wasn’t anyone to get up on stage and lip-sync to pop songs. 

His gyrating heel clacked against the guitar case he’d absently placed by the foot of his stool, and the answer was suddenly so obvious.

“I can do it,” Cas said.

“Pardon?”

Cas gestured to the case. “I have my guitar—I can do it.” He leaned across the bar on his elbows, calling after Lilith when she shook her head to the contrary and tried to walk away, to the other end of the bar, “I can take their place, Lil! Just give me an hour or two to cobble an outfit together, and I’ll be good to go.”

“You’re seventeen, Cas.” She perched a hand on her hip, “That’s illegal.”

“Me working here at all is basically illegal!” He scoffed, “Besides, I have a fake.”

She couldn’t remain frosty when her business was on the line, though she tried her hardest. But when Cas pulled his wallet from his pocket, and handed her his shitty fake ID, she took it begrudgingly, holding it up to compare the card to Cas. Pursing her lips, she flicked her gaze back and forth, tapping her sharp, acrylic nails off the plastic before relenting with a sigh.

“Alistair,” Lilith called, handing him the card when he sauntered over to them, his eyes red rimmed and hazy, “get him a better one.” He took it silently and stalked off, through the bead curtains towards the back hall. “This will have to do in the meantime,” Lilith said to Cas, fishing the key for the dressing room out of her bra, “Let me know what you need, duckie, and I’ll do my best to get it for you.”

“Okay,” Cas said, his voice trembling with false bravado.

It seemed like such an obvious solution when he suggested it, though he was certain Lil wouldn’t agree.

But now that he was expected to go on stage in less than an hour, the reality of what he’d signed up for crashed into him with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

He was a bundle of nerves as he sat alone in the dressing room, hunched over borrowed makeup palettes, and trying to replicate some of the techniques Guy had passed on to him over the past few weeks. His hands shook as he applied his eyeliner, which turned into more of a wave then a line, but he hadn’t the time nor the mental capacity to fret over it.

This was the first time in month’s he’d be performing in front of a crowd, and the first time in his life he’d be up on stage _alone_. With his band backing him, or as part of an orchestra, he felt confident, like rock royalty, but now? With just him and his guitar, wearing borrowed clothes and used makeup, a wig that belonged to Jason and shoes that were two sized too big for him? He felt awkward, uncomfortable, and ill prepared. 

What was he going to do?

Was he going to lip-sync? He’d never done that before.

He always sang live.

Was he going to perform one of _his_ songs? But there was only him on an acoustic guitar, and he hadn’t a clue how they’d come across without the rest of his band backing him. Besides, he hadn’t rehearsed.

He could always play something else—but what? What could he do that wouldn’t sound like a bad karaoke session? He knew his music inside and out. He should; after all, he wrote it. And he didn’t think the dad rock he played in parks and on street corners for chump change was going to cut it as the headlining act at a club like The End.

He needed to safety-pin the sides of the dress he wore—a slinky, red satin dress cut just below the curve of his rear, with a plunging cowl neck and a strappy, open back—and the patent leather black pumps he stole from Guy’s wardrobe were slippery from his sweat. After stuffing socks into the toes to keep him from sliding around too much, Cas glued down his wig, frowning in the mirror as he tried to smooth of the thick, black curls, ones that were matting from disuse. He looked a damn mess, but he still looked _good_. A sloppy kind of pretty, attractive in just how unpolished he was.

Pretty wasn’t going to please this crowd, though. At least, not pretty on its own.

As he hovered at the edge of the stage, Alistair handing him a much better fake and wishing him luck (sincerely, too; very out of the norm for him), Cas listened to the deafening roar of the crowd just beyond the curtain, which he hadn’t heard from the dressing room. There had to be hundreds of people out there, twice the size of the crowd he’d fought to walk through the first night he visited The End. His heart beat loudly, rattling his bones and he gripped the neck of his guitar so tightly in his fist that he could feel the strings groaning under his palm.

This was it. There was no going back—it was time to sink or swim.

Someone gave him a shove between the shoulder blades, and Cas stumbled through the curtains, into the blinding lights. He beelined to the microphone, stooping to clip the jack to his guitar, and when he looked out into the crowd, it was just a sea of people shaped shadows, nameless and faceless, the same crashing wave of bodies that graced every show he’d ever performed at. They were different people, but they came together to make up the same mass he’d seen many times before, concert goers he’d not register were even there until he walked off stage with his blood rushing, his head pounding and his heart full at the sound of their frantic cheers for one more song.

It was second nature then to go right into one of the first songs he’d ever written, and he smiled when the crowd welcomed him with open arms, screaming, jumping, and pushing against the stage, just to get closer to where he stood.

As the familiar lyrics tumbled from his lips, his fingers flying across the strings of his well-loved guitar, relief washed over him in a great, surging tidal wave. The burden of his daily life, and any misplaced nervousness he felt disappeared with it, receding into the sea of people before him, and all that was left were the things he loved _before_ his life fell to pieces: the lights, the crowd, the music, and the stage.

What had he been afraid of _,_ he wondered?

_This was what he’d been born to do._

At the end of his last number, the house lights dipped just enough that he could see the crowd of anonymous faces looking up at him, cheering for more. He was drenched in sweat, his throat was raw and sore, and his synthetic hair clung to the back of his neck like a curtain, but Castiel didn’t want to this moment to end. His feet ached, his toes curling in the socks he had crammed in there, but he didn’t want to step away, to descend back down to earth and rejoin reality. He had his guitar in hand, his fingers raw and calloused still, though he’d not played like he had tonight in months, and he realized that this—being on stage, performing, baring himself to anyone who would listen and taking their admiration as payment—was what he’d been missing. He lived for this, and he’d been deprived of it, starved of the thing he needed to survive.

He didn’t think he could just be a bar back anymore, not when he’d had a taste of this _purpose_.

He was beaming out at the crowd, his cheeks aching from smiling as he gave them his thanks, and wishing them a happy Halloween between large, gulping breaths of air, when someone at the bar caught his eye. Castiel wasn’t drawn to him by any attempt on his part – he wasn’t trying to get his attention in the slightest— but when he tried to find Lilith, to see her reaction to his performance, this man just happened to be sitting beside where she stood, looking entirely out of place.

All the other clubgoers were dressed in costume. There were zombies, clowns, sexy cops and robbers among other things, and folks wearing nothing but thongs and a pair of angel wings. This man though, the one who caught Castiel’s gaze out from a sea of strangers, looked nothing like the rest of them. He wore a three-piece suit, expensive and impeccably tailored. His hair, though thinning at his temples, was tousled expertly, like he had a stylist on hand to keep it in line for him. He was sipping his tumbler of top shelf scotch (the dusty, long forgotten bottle sat beside him on the bar) with an air of expertise, as though he often found himself in dive bars on a Saturday night, even if he knew he didn’t belong there.

He was handsome, older, with deep lines cut into his forehead and bags under his eyes, which were the deepest brown Cas had ever seen, almost black in their intensity. Piercing, dark eyes, peering up at Castiel from underneath his thick, heavy brows. They caught Cas from amongst the crowd, and when he had him in his sights, he stole Cas’ breath away. It was like he’d been hooked, snatched out of his moment of exhilaration without repose, without warning, and the noise from the crowd slipped away into nothingness, the sweat that clung to his skin and the heat from the lights a mere memory in the face of this stranger’s hypnotizing gaze. 

He held him there for what felt like an eternity. Cas’ hand went slack, his guitar now resting entirely on its strap and he needed to grab the microphone stand to support himself as his knees unexpectedly buckled. It was an imperceptible stumble to anyone other than the man at the bar, but when he caught it, the stranger slowly grinned, a handsome smile both mesmerizing, and menacing. He tipped his glass to Castiel, and then turned away, sipping as he slid off his stool and into the crowd, the bottle of scotch secure in his other hand.

The spell was broken the moment his back was turned, but Castiel still felt amiss. His skin prickled at the sudden influx of heat that blossomed in his core, heat that didn’t stem from the lights. It tingled up his legs, his arms, goosebumps bursting against his skin, and he watched helplessly as the stranger vanished, dissolving into the incomprehensible ocean of people.

But then Lilith gave him a wild smile and two big thumbs up from the bar, and the memory of that stranger disappeared, nothing left of him but that steamy, lingering heat. Castiel needed only to see her beaming grin, and the man was forgotten.

**November 20 th**

Cas took over the headlining spot that night.

Jason never showed up again—his boyfriend said he just disappeared. He left his things behind, his clothes and all his treasured belongings, the kind of stuff you don’t up and leave without. They gave a statement at the bar to the police, but even as the missing persons report was issued, they didn’t seem too hopeful.

“This happens too often,” Lilith told Cas, after he mentioned his distaste for the cop’s flippancy, “People come and go through places like this, and when the police already think we’re vagrants and degenerates, they tend not to take us seriously when we need their help.”

It was bullshit, but true. In the following weeks, they never heard from the police or Jason again, and after a month, the search petered out, culminating in Jason’s boyfriend coming to The End to pick up his things on his way out of town. Without Jason there, it just didn’t feel like home anymore.

With the extra influx of cash that performing brought, Cas was able to hire Abby as a babysitter full-time, completely mitigating his need to leave his infant brother in the care of his alcoholic grandfather, which gave him the peace of mind to work most nights. He still bar-backed for some shifts, but otherwise, he only found himself at The End to sing… and he pulled _crowds._

Lilith said he was their most profitable performer in years. “I told you! You have a gift,” she crooned, perched on the vanity as Cas painstakingly applied his eyeliner, “Star-power. You’re the best thing to happen to this place.”

“And what am I?” Guy piped up, glaring as she turned to look at him over her shoulder, “Chopped liver?”

“You’re still a superstar,” she told him, patting him comfortingly on the shoulder, “but Cas is our ingenue. Our little diva—he’s gonna put us on the map.”

“That he is,” Guy concurred, smiling at him in the mirror. He’d warmed to Cas almost immediately, and never objected (seriously, at least) when Cas got bumped up to headliner over him. Instead, he was ecstatic for him, and had been helping him refine his wardrobe and make-up techniques ever since. He’d become like a godmother to Castiel, filling a void left behind by his _actual_ mother, one Cas didn’t realize he was sorely wanting.

With that self-appointed mantle of Cas’ ‘mother’ though came the unsolicited advice. And when Lilith hopped off the vanity, leaving the dressing room to turn the bar, Guy wasted no time adding, “Your boyfriend is at the bar again, by the way.”

Cas froze, his breath hitching in his throat, though he quickly composed himself. “What?” he asked, pretending to be oblivious.

“I saw him on the way in.” Guy flicked his eyes up from lining his lips. “Your regular? The older Scottish guy with the nice clothes.”

“I don’t know who you’re referring to.” He did. He _totally_ did, but Cas wasn’t about to tell Guy that. He could barely think about that strange man without his heart skipping a beat, his palms going sweaty and his toes tingling. He’d never even met him, but since his first night on stage, the very mention of him, the merest hint of his presence sent Cas into a tizzy, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why.

“Dumb isn’t a good look on you Cas, so stop playing at it.” Pumping the breaks on his makeup, Guy turned to look at him. “He only ever shows up for you, you know? He doesn’t come to anyone else’s shows, and he leaves right after your set.”

Cas didn’t know that. “Really?” he asked, dropping his eyeliner brush to the table, Guy finally succeeding in capturing his attention.

Guy nodded, smirking. “He likes you.”

“He’s twice my age.”

“He’s _rich,_ if the Armani he wears to this dump are anything to go off of.”

“What’s your point?” Cas asked, becoming increasingly frustrated by the deluge of uncomfortable, irritating interest prodding at the corners of his mind.

“No point.” Guy said with a shrug. “Just might be a solution to your money woes, is all.”

He dropped the subject immediately after that, asking Cas about Jack and his grandfather, and making light small talk. But he’d already succeeded in throwing Castiel for a loop. No matter how much he let him talk about his little brother, his favorite topic, especially now that he was getting older and passing milestones by the day, Cas couldn’t keep his mind from wandering back to his apparent fan.

Guy was right, after all. He had been there every night Cas was performing since Halloween. He always sat at the bar, always in plain sight of the stage and always with a glass of scotch in his hand. Cas thought he was a regular though; he never thought to hope that the handsome stranger was there for _him_.

 _Stop flattering yourself, Castiel_ , he mentally reprimanded. He was probably just a fan of drag, or a pervert who got off on watching someone leagues younger than himself dressed in next to nothing. Or maybe he truly appreciated Cas’ singing. Either way, there had to be an ulterior motive, because Guy was right about one other thing, too: this dude was _rich_.

He wore expensive suits, drank top shelf scotch (not sold by the glass, and about 200$ a bottle), and tipped him generously, always leaving Cas 100$ bills at the bar, instead of tossing crumpled singles on the stage like everyone else. He had a private car drop him off at the back of the club, and he always entered through the rear door, taking pains not to be spotted on the way in. The back-door entry didn’t come cheap either—Alistair was a prick like that, and he’d taken to charging a 50$ fee for his time—and this was multiple nights a week.

Cas knew he was talented, but he wasn’t worth _that much_.

And yet, as he stepped out onto the stage, his long, dark wig piled on his head in a messy bun, his stiletto boots clacking against the particle board, he wished he was. Because the stranger was sitting at the bar, same as always, just like Guy said. And the way he looked at him, with his eyes raking up Castiel’s long, bare legs, to the edges of his frayed summer dress, his plaid blazer to his heavy, darkly painted eyes, only to linger on his lips when Cas finally started to sing… it made him feel delectable. Like a five-course meal he could never hope to afford. Like something desirable, beautiful, and just out of reach, and Cas felt that heat start to simmer in his belly once again, like it had the first night he saw him, and every night since.

He couldn’t bring himself to believe that what Guy insinuated was true.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t dream.

Their eyes met and with it, from somewhere unknown to him, came a sudden surge of heated desire. Castiel took his place at the mic, not greeting the crowd or bothering with any preamble. He never did—they were there to watch him perform, not to chat. And when he started to sing, the words tumbling past his lips, he held that eye contact, urging the man to do the same.

“Here it comes, a cure for the night,” Castiel sang, cupping the microphone with both hands, leaning sultrily against the stand, and he slowly licked his lips, “I’ve been waiting to let you inside.”

Even from across the room, Cas saw the mysterious strangers’ nostrils flare, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“You will follow the moon to my sea, ever since you touched me.”

He sipped his scotch, licking the remnants from his parched lips.

“I can’t sleep.”

He shifted in his chair, transfixed, and Castiel knew that this time he had hooked _him._

“From the memory.”

His heart beat faster, and Cas swayed from one foot to the other in a leisurely rhythm, watching as the stranger followed him, hypnotised by the subtle shift of his hips. Fascinating. It appeared he had him in his thrall, and when Cas slid his right leg out to the side, stretching out into a long, perfect line only to pull it back slowly towards his body, dragging his toe against the floor and bending his knee towards his inner thigh, curving his hips, the stranger was helpless to look away.

“When I saw you, I knew I was cursed,” Cas murmured, his lips inches from the microphone, “I’m the one who got bit first.”

A thrill of excitement ran through him when the man at the bar visibly shuddered, his shoulders tensing in anticipation as he crawled his gaze back up Castiel’s legs. He looked hopelessly into his eyes, that perilous, intimidating smirk long gone, replaced by a tenacious desperation. Cas canted his hips to the side as he sang to him alone, sliding his fingers up the microphone stand, teasing across the smooth metal. He was a conflicted mess of emotions, torn between hoping the stranger could see the flush on his cheeks, his obvious interest in the man’s intense attraction, and wanting to run and hide, feeling like a fish out of water, a child playing a game he was too young to understand.

But still he sang, delighted when the man’s grip on his tumbler tightened, “I’m just doing what you did to me. Dear,” Cas crooned, a desire he’d never felt before taking hold of him, moving him like a man possessed, “there, lovers beware.”

The music tapered off, but Castiel couldn’t catch his breath. It had been stolen from him, lost in the electric gaze of the stranger at the bar, who never once stopped staring at him.

The stranger was breathing as heavily as him, Cas could see it from across the room. His chest heaved, and Castiel couldn’t help but imagine that it was _him_ that stole his breath away, along with all the other ways in which he wished to see this man gasp for air. Cas bit his lip to keep from saying something stupid, still painfully aware of the crowd separating him, and the microphone right in front of his face, ready to amplify whatever embarrassing musing he might accidentally spew forth.

It wasn’t until the crowd began to applaud, that Castiel snapped out of his stupor.

What the hell had come over him? Cas wondered fretfully as he stumbled off-stage. He bypassed the hallway to the dressing room, darted past the open doorway into the kitchen, ignoring Alistair’s whistles and cat-calls on his way to the back door.

He’d never felt anything like that before.

The rush of chill, night air that blasted him as he threw open the door did little to quell his exhilaration. The back alley was empty, save for a few empty cars and the buzz of the light next to the door, and Cas heaved a sigh as the door slammed shut behind him. Falling back against it, his head knocking against the metal with a defeated thump, he let his eyes flutter shut, breathing in the crisp air, and letting the wind cool the sweat that clung to his bared skin.

With his eyes closed, he could see that man again, as clearly as if he were back on stage. What was it about him that made Cas lose his head? There was a building full of people, all watching him, cheering for him. People who paid for the privilege, and yet… this was the one out of all of them he chose to fixate on. Why?

There was something in the way he looked at him, Cas figured, opening his eyes to banish the memory of that soul-searching stare from his mind. He fished his pack of cigarettes out of his bra, and stared out into the dark abyss of the alley. He was no stranger to being the object of someone’s desire, despite his age—his teen years spent unsupervised and in bars made short work of that—but this was different.

When it came to a sleazebag promotor or one of his closeted classmates, Castiel knew what they wanted from him: his body, his voice, or his charm. This man was wealthy, handsome, twice his age and cut from an upper-class cloth Cas could never hope to compare with, and he had no need for Cas’ anything. He could get (or at least, afford) more attractive boys than Cas, could probably hire his own choir of singers more talented than him, and certainly whatever allure Cas possessed this man already had in droves, since he could turn Castiel’s world upside down with just a heated glance.

So, why did he seem so outwardly affected when Cas sang to him?

He’d caught Cas’ attention that first night, and held it ever since. He was handsome, severe, and intriguing, and if Cas wasn’t sure he had daddy issues before, he was now. The stranger wasn’t the most attractive man he’d ever seen, and he wasn’t his type in the least, but his eyes captivated him, and Cas found that although he knew nothing of him, he wanted nothing more than to please him. To keep that attention solely on himself, to covet it and revel in the fact that he’d earned it from this rich, powerful man with nothing but the sound of his voice and the sway of his hips.

The smallest hint of approval from this stranger sent Castiel into palpitations, had his skin prickling and his vision hazing with arousal. He could sense his intent from leagues apart, and he knew the man’s answering attraction in the way he groped his gaze up Cas’ body, so weighty Cas could feel it, like the man was searing him with his own hands.

Castiel groaned and closed his eyes again, slipping the cigarette between his lips and crossing his legs against the fire in his belly. He didn’t have time for this—he needed to get himself under control, claw his way back to reality, and finish his set so he could go home and take care of his brother. Some silly, imagined crush on a man who was probably an axe-murderer or a sex fiend was the last thing he should be bothering with.

Groping around at his chest looking for his matches, Cas was startled out of his reverie by a low, growly voice asking, “Need a light?”

Snapping his eyes open, Cas snatched the cigarette from his lips and turned towards the person who spoke to him, taking a large step backwards. He clenched his fists; he was wearing six-inch stilettos and the door was locked from the inside—if this person wanted to hurt him, Cas’d have a hell of a chance sprinting around to the front of the bar dressed as he was.

When he realized the voice belonged to his mysterious stranger, however, he froze curiously. The man stood on the steps of the fire escape, effectively blocking Castiel’s only way out and boxing him in towards the wall, with his arm outstretched and a lit zippo clasped in his hand. He wore a pitch-black overcoat atop his tailored suit, the blood red lining peeking from underneath the lapels as the wind ripped through the alleyway. He stood smooth and poised, relaxed in his posture, the slight cant of his head as he awaited Cas’ answer intriguing.

When Cas’ back hit the locked door to the bar however, he snapped out of his stupor right quick. “What are you doing back here?” he demanded, looking over both of his shoulders and down the alley for any sign of Alistair, “You shouldn’t be here.” Of course, the bouncer picked the one time Cas needed him to make himself scarce… “Damn it, Alistair.” Nearly crushing the cigarette in his fist, Cas pointed one long finger at the man in front of him, trying to make himself seem as intimidating as the minidress and fishnets would allow, “Listen, I don’t know if you think you’re being cute or whatever, but you need to leave, _now_. I mean it, if you don’t get the hell away from me, I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass I’ll be kicking your tonsils.”

The stranger backed off immediately, snapping the lighter closed. “Alright,” he drawled, holding his hands up in the air, and taking a few steps backwards down the stairs, “didn’t mean to scare you, love. I’ll leave you to it.”

Cas acted on instinct—he didn’t know this man from Adam, and he’d accosted him in the middle of the night, alone, in the back alley of the club. Sure, it wasn’t a rational decision, but the way he instantly agreed to leave when Cas told him to was compelling, and the way he walked down the stairs, his back turned to Castiel without another word to the contrary, without the slightest hint of an argument, was almost enough to make Cas regret his course of action.

He wasn’t about to call him back, for the sake of his pride at least, but when he reached into his bra again, and he realized he really _didn’t_ have his matches…

“Wait!” Cas called after him, and the man stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking up expectantly, “I actually—I _do_ need a light.” Chuckling, the man strode up towards Cas, taking his time as he reached the top to pull his lighter from his pocket once again, cupping his hands around the flame as Castiel leaned down and lit his cigarette. “Thanks,” Cas said sheepishly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear, “umm?”

The stranger grinned at him, snapping open a brass cigarette case and lighting one of his own. He inhaled deeply, his face obscured by shadow, and through a cloud of smoke introduced himself: “Call me Crowley.”

Cas rolled his eyes at the obviously fake name. “Right.”

“What, am I supposed to believe your name is really _Diana Ditch_?”

“No, I suppose not.” He had a deep, sensual voice, one that sent tingles down Castiel’s spine, and he tried to play it cool. Leaning back against the door, bending one leg at the knee, he asked, “Well then _Crowley_ , to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Crowley reached out, gingerly taking Cas’ free hand from its place on his hip and bringing it to his lips. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he said, surprising Cas once again by pressing a lingering kiss to his knuckles, before letting him go, “I figured I’ve been haunting your set for long enough; it was only polite that I introduce myself.”

He snatched his hand back like he’d been burned. “Is that all?”

“Not in the slightest.” Crowley didn’t seem to take any offence, and instead plucked his smoke from between his lips, tipping the ash against the railing of the fire escape. “I wanted to meet you, to talk to you and see if you weren’t as captivating in person as you are on stage.”

His heart skipped a beat, and if it weren’t for the smoke that passed his lips, Cas couldn’t be certain he was still breathing. “Am I?”

“Captivating?” Crowley flicked his eyes up towards Castiel’s, and that heat from before, from the stage, was back with a vengeance, “Yes. You’re magnetic, Diana.”

He was like a man possessed, enthralled against his better judgement to tell him, “It’s Cas.”

Pleased with this unexpected turn of events, Crowley smiled widely and chuckled, dipping his chin to his chest in a boyish way that made Cas’ knees turn to jelly. “May I buy you a drink?” he asked, flicking his cigarette over the railing to sizzle in a puddle below, “After your show, of course.”

“I can’t,” Cas said, with a timid shake of his head, “I’d love to, but I can’t.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Cas once more. “How old are you, Cas?” he asked, as though he was really seeing him now, for the first time.

And with that, Castiel was certain it was over. His interest waned, now that he’d seen him in person, up close and learned how young he really was, “It’s probably better if you don’t know.”

He pursed his lips, looked Castiel up and down, and instead of patented disinterest (what Cas had been expecting) when he caught his gaze again, that heat was still there, and very much alive. “Well, drink or no, I would still love for you to join me,” Crowley said, boldly stepping forwards to tuck another errant strand of synthetic hair behind Cas’ ear, his fingers lingering against his cheek before he turned to walk away, his parting words another invitation, “I’ll be waiting by the bar afterwards.”

Crowley walked down the stairs and out of the alley without another word, his expensive, Italian leather shoes clacking against the pavement and heralding his exit. With a great exhale, Castiel fell back against the door, his cigarette fluttering to his feet, still lit as he pressed both of his palms to his chest just to feel that his heart was still beating. He skirted his trembling fingers against his cheek, tracing the path of Crowley’s touch down to his chin, where he’d grazed Castiel’s painted lips.

This was no innocent, chance meeting with a fan. His intent was there in every query, every glance, and that _touch_. Cas hadn’t imagined his attraction, hadn’t devised it as a fantasy where this intriguing man, one who smelled like the woods, who dressed like a goth millionaire and whose voice was as smooth as butter, was just as fascinated with Cas, as Cas was with him.

The thought thrilled him.

It terrified him.

Cas gave the rest of his set to Guy that night— not bothering to come up with an excuse— and immediately went home, before he had a chance to run into the mysterious Crowley again.

**November 30 th**

Despite Cas’ obvious attempts at ignoring him, Crowley still showed up to his performances, every night.

It was flattering, in a disconcerting way, how persistent this man was in his attempts to get Cas’ attention. He was always there, always in his spot next to Lilith at the bar, and while Cas avoided eye contact at all costs, he could feel him staring. His weighty stare that felt like a physical burden every time Cas turned his back. Even Lilith, who had remained relatively silent on the matter, had asked if he wanted her to give Crowley the boot.

“If he’s making you uncomfortable, then he shouldn’t be here, sugar,” she said to him, having cornered Cas in the hall by the dressing room. And while she was right, how could Cas possible begin to explain to her that while Crowley made him nervous, he didn’t make him uncomfortable? Not in the _least_.

Crowley made him sweat. He made him clam up and stumble over his words like a guilty schoolchild. He made his body thrum with excitement, and fear, and a thousand other emotions he didn’t have the name of, because he’d never felt them before.

He’d gone home the night after they met and scoured the phonebook, looking for the name Crowley to appear anywhere, but it was a useless endeavour. The man hadn’t given him his real name (and Cas knew it, but he had to _try_ ), even after Cas had played the only card he had and given him his.

Why had he done that? He’d been performing since he learned his first power cord, and he discovered early on that his real name was something he only gave to close friends and employers. To the fans and the rest of the world, he was Diana, and it was for his own safety. But one short conversation with a compelling stranger made him forget the earliest lesson he’d ever gleaned.

That’s why Crowley made him nervous, and why he avoided him like the plague. It wasn’t worry over his intentions, or that he was a creep, or he annoyed him, but that in his presence Cas took leave of all his senses. Alone with him, Cas forgot everything that he knew about playing it cool, being safe, staying aloof. He lost all his carefully cultivated barriers, walls erected over a short lifetime to protect himself, and with all that gone, what was left was an overwhelming desire to please. He turned into someone foreign to himself, someone servile who wanted more than anything to make this stranger, this _Crowley_ happy, to gain his attention, his affection, and his approval.

“You’re magnetic,” was all he needed to say to Castiel to have his knees buckling, and his real name tumbling past his lips, desperate to hear that sweet praise directed at him alone, and not his alter-ego.

That lack of control, or rather the willingness to give it up, was what made him keep his distance.

It scared the life out of him, not the man who spurred it.

So, Cas did the only thing he could think of, and kept his head down. Kept Crowley out of arms reach, and soon enough he started to forget he was even there.

Until one night near the end of November, when he had done such a good job forgetting him, that Cas glided past Crowley’s spot at the bar without a passing thought. And like walking too close to a tiger’s cage, Cas was swiped not with claws but with a strong, thick fingered hand clasped around his forearm.

He gasped, and jerked backwards, but Crowley didn’t let him go. Cas’ bracelets jingled around his wrist and he tugged his arm in vain, but when he realized who it was who held him, he stopped struggling. He sighed, whether out of delight or regret he didn’t know, but he relaxed, letting his arm droop in Crowley’s strong grasp.

“Hello, Castiel,” the man said, his voice smooth as silk.

“Crowley.” Cas replied curtly, his eyes narrowing. “How did you learn my full name?”

Crowley shrugged, letting go of Castiel’s arm and snapping up his tumbler, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a ginger sip. “I have my means,” he said, his eyes flicking upwards from the glass to Cas’ eyes, “You’ve been quite the stranger, poppet. Did I offend you?”

The sincerity in his voice didn’t match the expression on his face, and yet Cas was still compelled to put his worries to rest. “No, not at all,” he said, taking a hesitant step forwards, his fingers aching to reach out and touch, to physically smooth away any misunderstanding his coldness might have wrought. He stopped himself just in time, his hands hovering in front of him, and while he clasped them together and brought them to his chest, pretending to work some heat into them despite the sweat and fervor of the club, it was a useless pantomime. Crowley saw right through him, and the devious grin he graced him with was both humiliating, and exhilarating. “You just took me by surprise,” Cas explained, ducking his head, and tucking his long, dark hair behind his ears in a sort of newly developed nervous tic.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Crowley said, though Cas kept his gaze firmly on the ground. He didn’t dare look up, didn’t trust what he might do if he could see the way Crowley was looking at him, whilst hearing him speak in that slow, sinister voice. “And if you let me take you out to dinner tonight, I swear to be on my best behaviour.”

Cas blinked. That wasn’t what he expected to hear. He looked up sharply, not trusting his ears. “Tonight?”

“Yes.” Crowley said simply.

“Okay.” Cas answered immediately, not taking a moment to think. He was running on auto; his brain having taken a backseat to this strange part of him that wanted to grab this opportunity and run. “I mean—yes, I’d love to.”

With nothing more than a smile and a nod they parted ways, Crowley staying at his perch and Cas taking his place on the stage. That night, as he sang, his blood thrummed with anticipation, the beat of the song echoing the pounding of his nervous heart.

Had he lost his mind?

He smiled shyly at Crowley as he left the stage, pleased at the way the man tipped him his glass.

He must have gone mad.

“What are you doing, Cassie?” Lilith asked as he got changed backstage, wiping his makeup off as best he could and worming back into his street clothes. She stood behind him, leaning against the door frame, and staring at him worriedly through the mirror. He knew her concern was deserved and well-meaning, but it felt patronizing all the same.

“Getting a free meal.” Cas answered, not wanting to delve into every viable reason why this was a bad, bad idea.

“You’re playing with fire.” She spanned the room in a matter of seconds, heaving herself up onto the table, so close her hip grazed his side as he leaned in close to the mirror, attempting to sort out his hair. “He’s old enough to be your father.”

He rolled his eyes at her dramatics. “He’s not that old, Lil,” Cas said, to convince her as much as himself, “it’s just dinner.”

“Its never _just_ dinner, not with guys like that.” Suddenly, she reached out and cupped his cheeks, tilting his head back so he had to look her at her directly, not though the safety of her reflection. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. He’s a stranger; to you and to me. I know all the regulars who come through here, save for him. He lurks the bar during your shows, has a few drinks, and leaves. He talks to you and no one else.” Her concern was palpable, her brows tilted in an odd, sad way he’d never seen on her face before, one that put him instantly on the defensive. “I just want you to be safe,” she said.

“I promise I’ll call you in two hours.”

He gulped, feeling her sharpened nails scrape against his jaw as she stared at him. She could see through him, he was certain, but to her credit, she didn’t push him any further. Instead, she sighed and let him go, hopping off the table. “If I don’t hear from you then,” she said, patting him amicably on the shoulders and catching his eye one last time, again through the mirror, “I’m calling the cops.”

“Deal.”

“Stay safe kiddo.”

Stripped of his armor, and wearing jeans and a t-shirt in its stead, Castiel shuffled nervously at the door to Crowley’s dark car. “Lilith thinks you’re going to steal me away and murder me,” he said, ducking his head, and squinting at the driver through the tinted windows.

Crowley paused in opening the door to the back seat, his brow furrowing as he glanced over his shoulder at Cas. “Why would I do a stupid thing like that?”

“Why indeed.”

With a shake of his head and a sigh, he let the door drift closed, fishing for something in his overcoat. “Here,” he said, pulling a card from his breast pocket, and handing it to Castiel, “my ID. You can hold on to that if it will make you feel more secure.”

Cas instantly perked up, and he snatched the card from his hand without the slightest decorum. “Fergus McCleod?” he read, raising a curious brow. That wasn’t a name he expected this mysterious man to have. Too normal, too—human.

“Castiel Kline.” On equal footing once more, or as equal as they would ever be with the leagues of differences between them, Crowley held the door open for Cas as he ushered him into the back seat. “Shall we?” he asked.

Cas followed unhesitatingly; Fergus’ ID clasped tightly in his fist.

A silent car ride later, and they arrive at a place Cas felt far too poor to be in. The valets gave him funny looks as he walked up the long, awninged drive, and when Crowley held the door for him, the hostess look positively scandalized. But Crowley, after nodding to the same hostess, parted the sneering servers and managers like the Red Sea, making his way across the darkened dining room to a private booth in the back, close to the kitchen, and hidden from sight.

“I’ve never been somewhere so nice before,” Cas said, taking his seat at the table and handing his jacket to their server, who held out their hand for it wordlessly. When she walked away, he shuffled a little closer to Crowley along the curved bench, and confessed, “I feel out of place.”

“Nonsense,” said Crowley, who reached out suddenly and brushed his thumb under Cas’ eye, no doubt rubbing away some lingering eyeliner. A mess, of course he looked a mess, but Crowley didn’t hesitate to reassure him, and there was something in his voice, something so plain and forthright that Castiel believed him when he said, “You look beautiful.”

It helped to put him at ease, even when the waitress returned to take their order. She tried to go into her usual, jovial preamble, but Crowley cut her off immediately, ordering fast for both himself and Cas, and she had to struggle to keep up. “Do you come here often?” Castiel asked when she walked away once more, this time like a dog with her tail between her legs.

She wasn’t the only one cowed by Crowley’s presence. There was a man in a perfectly tailored suit hovering nearby, who caught their server on her way towards the kitchen and seemingly grilled her about their order. He was clearly a manager, or owner, someone who cared about the restaurant’s reputation, and when he finally let their server move on, he flagged down two more, pointed to their table, and spoke with a sense of gravity Castiel could practically feel, before waving them on.

“No,” Crowley finally answered, watching the same scene unfold, “but my reputation precedes me.”

Cas shifted in his seat, as intrigued by that as he was by the restaurant staff imploding. “What is it you do?” he asked, resting his chin in his hands as he stared at Crowley.

Crowley smiled slowly, sipping on the glass of red wine the sommelier brought to him, silent as a mouse. “I’m a doctor,” was all Crowley said, before turning his full attention to Castiel, pinning him to his seat like a butterfly to a board, and turning the question around on him, “What is it _you_ do? Are you in school?”

“I was,” Cas said, sitting back in his seat and allowed the server to fill his glass of water, and set down his cutlery, “I dropped out.”

Ticking a brow, Crowley asked, “Why?”

“My mother died, and I have to take care of my brother.”

“When did she pass?”

“Five months ago.”

“And your brother is?”

“Five months old.”

“Oh, Cas.” Crowley placed his glass back on the table, his expression somber, and surprisingly honest, so much so that Cas didn’t feel an ounce of the pity he was used to receiving when he said softly, “I’m sorry.”

Cas waved away his concern.

“It’s alright,” he said, as he usually did whenever the topic of his mother came about. He hated the sympathy, the forced condolences. He’d learned very quickly that they usually meant nothing, that people offered their consolation not on his behalf, but to assuage their own guilt. Because death made people uncomfortable, interrupted their carefree routine, and made them face the concept of mortality, which to a self-centered person (which most people are), forced them to think about their _own_ mortality. So, they say they’re sorry, ask if you’re alright, and tell you to ask if there is anything you need, to just ask, but they really don’t mean it.

They’re just saying what they think they must, because they’re a “good person.”

But not Crowley. Cas hesitated for a moment, pondering the man beside him, who was staring at him, always, though not with pity or discomfort. He wasn’t looking at him, the orphaned bastard who had his life upended and his dreams ripped to pieces… he was looking _through_ him, like he was person, not just a caricature.

It inspired him to speak, though rationally he knew he should keep his mouth shut. This was a game they were playing, and though he might not know which, or what the rules were, he had to keep his cards close to his chest. But this _man_ , this Fergus McCleod, made him _stupid_.

“No, actually,” he said, his hands balling into fists in his lap as he willed himself to _stop_ talking, to no avail, “It’s not—it hasn’t been for a while. It’s getting easier though. The gig at The End really saved our bacon.” He glanced up, wincing, and looking back down into his lap when he was met with another devastating, unreadable expression on Crowley’s face, “Sorry. You didn’t bring me here to listen to my sob story.”

“Then pray tell, what _did_ I bring you here for?” Two short, strong fingers under his chin coaxed Cas into looking up, and once again, he was struck by the earnestness of Crowley’s eyes, guarded though they were, as he asked, “Would you rather change the subject?”

Cas nodded. “Please.”

The matter closed, Crowley nodded to the server as they dropped off their food, and Castiel had to struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. He wasn’t a complete rube, he’d been out for nice dinner before, but it had been _so long_ since he’d eaten anything other than cup ramen and peanut butter sandwiches, that the simple steak and potatoes in front of him looked like a ten-course feast.

If Crowley noticed his hunger, he didn’t mention it, and Castiel took great pains to eat politely, to take small bites instead of wolfing down his food like he really wanted to. “If you were in school still, what is it you’d be studying?” Crowley asked between bites, eating gingerly.

Cas paused, and shook his head. What was the point? “I don’t—”

“Humor me.” Crowley interjected, good-natured yet firm.

He was buying him a dinner he couldn’t hope to afford on his own, Cas mused. He supposed answering his questions was the least he could do.

“I was going to study music composition and theory at Julliard.” My, he didn’t think that would shock him, but the look the man gave him made Cas grin. He liked getting the upper hand on Crowley, liked surprising him, putting him out of _his_ comfort zone for once. “I’ve been a pre-collegiate scholar there since I was thirteen,” he continued, prodding at his dinner, “and I was on my way to a full scholarship once I graduated, but the tuition costs in the mean time…”

Crowley nodded somberly, because of _course_ he knew the cost of a Julliard education, even at the pre-college level. It hadn’t come cheap, and Kelly needed to take out a second job just to swing it. Once she was gone, there was no way in hell Cas would have been able to cover the tuition, even if he had the time, taking care of Jack and all.

“I’ve only ever wanted to be a performer; I thought I could make a career out of it.” He shuffled a potato across his plate, and there he went, being a sad-sack again. This was why he refused to talk about this shit; what was the point? He was never going back to school, never going to do anything he dreamed he might do since the first time he strung a bow. Still, he reminisced, because he was asked to, “I used to dream of being a soloist in the New York philharmonic. Maybe getting my Master’s in Berlin. None of that’s ever going to happen now, though.”

His vision swam, his eyes misting over and he cursed, dragging his sleeve across his face angrily. How embarrassing, he fumed, furious with himself for getting emotional in the first place. He was better than this! Suck it up, Cas, stop being such a _baby—_

And then Crowley slid closer, so close their thighs brushed on the bench, though he moved as silent as a shark through water. “You sing beautifully, Castiel,” he murmured, cupping Cas’ cheek and brushing away the track of a tear, Cas’ breath catching high in his throat as his skin burned at the contact, heat prickling across his body, suddenly very conscious of their nearness, “it’s a shame you only do so for freaks and lowlifes in dive bars.”

“I _am_ a freak,” he quipped, his heart racing as Crowley kept his hand on his cheek, cupping his jaw, his fingers tickling just below his ear, and Castiel wondered half-hysterically if he could feel his manic pulse, “and I guess you’re a lowlife. Or, have I been imagining you at my shows for the past two months?”

Crowley chuckled, and Cas flushed with pride, dreadfully pleased he was able to make this powerful, stalwart man laugh. “Point taken,” said Crowley, his stern, dark gaze casting downwards for only a moment, before he looked up once more, captivating Cas with nothing more than the weight of his attention, “but you’re so young. You could still be _so_ _much_ _more_.”

“Your faith is admirable,” Cas breathed, his heart hammering in his chest, desire churning in his belly, “and unnerving.”

Crowley moved his hand, startling him like a bird in a cage, gliding his palm down his neck, dipping under the collar of his tee-shirt, and watching where he touched, enchanted by Cas’ pale throat, his delicate collarbone. “You only find it unnerving because you know there’s truth to what I’m saying,” he said, and Cas heard then—as he heard once before when met in the alley, but convinced himself was all in his head— the _heat_ in his voice. “You like to avoid the truth at all costs, don’t you?” Crowley asked, his hand on Castiel’s throat a brand against his skin, his eyes scorching like liquid fire, and his voice betraying any front he may put up, screaming to all the world his fixated, haunting desire.

His throat tight, and his head in the clouds, Cas hardly managed to reply, “I call it survival.”

Closing his eyes, Crowley took a deep breath, his hand now flat against Castiel’s sternum. “Indeed, my dove,” and after a moment of silence, he moved away, and Castiel had to restrain himself from following. They were in public, he reminded himself, and Crowley was a grown man. Nothing would happen there, at the very least.

But now, he was convinced of what Guy as saying all along.

Now he knew Lilith was right to worry about him.

It wasn’t all just a product of his overactive imagination.

Crowley _wanted_ him.

And a part of him, a deep, strange, frightening part, wanted Crowley, too.

He envied Crowley’s ability to compose himself. The older man went back to his supper like nothing had happened, shooing away the tension between them like an annoying bug.

He waved his fork at Castiel’s plate. “Eat,” he said with a wry grin, like he knew how he affected him, like he saw the way Cas’ fingers trembled as they plucked his fork from his plate, “you’re skin and bones.”

Somehow, it wasn’t until Castiel was in the backseat of Crowley’s car, driving back to his home, that he began to get nervous. Sure, the dinner was tense, but not in a bad way, and their conversation had been light and cordial the rest of the way through. The staff kept their distance, Crowley picked up the check, and they managed to keep an air of civility about them, even as they walked out the front doors.

When they were in the car however, with the doors locked, and windows tinted, Castiel’s palms began to sweat. His pulse raced, but with fear or anticipation, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that conversation had ground to a halt the moment they were inside, and that the driver was separated from them by a thick glass barrier, tinted almost black as well, leaving them ostensibly alone.

He wasn’t a fool. Naive, maybe, but no idiot. He knew what Crowley wanted from him, and could see it in his heavy gaze as he watched him, _still watching him_ , from the seat across. Smoke filled the cabin, billowing from the smoldering cigarette between Crowley’s fingers, the ember flaring on each inhale illuminating his face amongst the shadows. And Cas could only sit, his knees trembling, back straight and his hands clenched uselessly in his lap, awaiting and dreading something he didn’t know, or understand.

What would he do? Cas pondered.

Would he take him back to his home, as promised? Or would he stop somewhere first?

What did he expect of him? Simple and innocent didn’t seem like his bag, and Cas was certain that wasn’t what _he_ was looking for, either. Because even though he had no clue what he was doing, even though he _knew_ rationally this was a “Bad Idea” (capital B, capital I), Cas’ defenses were so low, his carefully cultivated walls tumbling down around him, torn brick by brick by the man who was stalking him, tracking him with nothing but his haunting eyes. He knew he would do _anything_ , say _anything_ , be _anyone_ —if Crowley asked him to.

He just wanted him, more than he’d ever wanted another person before in his (admittedly) short life.

So, if Crowley wanted to fuck him tonight, in the backseat of his Lamborghini, his driver ignoring them politely, Cas would let him.

God, he would let him.

He wouldn’t even need to try.

But then they pulled up to Castiel’s house, just like Crowley said they would. And instead of fucking him in the backseat of his Lamborghini, Crowley handed him his business card, with his personal number scrawled on the back.

“Call in the evenings,” he said, butting out his cigarette in the ashtray nearby, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather, “and if I don’t hear from you, I’ll see you next week.”

 _What the hell just happened?_ Cas wondered as he stood in his foyer, his back to the front door, Crowley’s business card clenched in his fist, and his cock rock hard in his jeans. Had he misunderstood? Had he somehow completely misinterpreted the tone of the whole night?

No. That just wasn’t possible.

There is no way he made all that up. The touches, the heated glances, the way Crowley looked at him the whole way home from dinner, like his was his main course. That was _real_. Crowley wanted him bad— enough to show up at every one of Castiel’s sets, to take him out for a dinner he could never hope to afford, to leave him 100$ tips every night, to listen to him, sympathize with him, to talk to him like he was a real person, an adult, not some stupid kid—

And Castiel wanted him, too. But he had to admit, as he caught his breath, willing his erection away so he could head up to the living room and rescue his brother from their grandfather’s drunken negligence, he was surprised how willing he was to give himself over.

Yes, he found Crowley extremely attractive. And yes, whenever he was near him, or spoke with him, or so much as looked at him, Cas found himself in the exact same state he was in now, overcome with arousal and desperate to please. And if Crowley had kissed him, Cas would have kissed him back with reckless abandon. If he had touched him, in a way no one, despite what his tendency to flirt might suggest, had ever touched him before, Castiel would have welcomed it, wouldn’t’ve tried to stop it.

If Crowley wanted to fuck him, Cas would have helplessly let him, would’ve let him take his virginity in the back of that car, parked in his driveway, his grandfather and baby brother just inside, only a few walls and a closed door away.

And the thought made his skin crawl.

Any excitement he felt dissipated, like someone had upended a bucket of cold water over his head, rushed away by a horrible, sinking feeling of dread and disgust.

How could he have been so rash? So vulnerable? He acted impulsively, put himself in danger, and for what? A free meal with a man he hardly knew, who he thought was sexy and grown-up, and who was, for some reason, interested in him? The man was pushing forty, for fucks sake! He should know better than to be fucking around with an 18-year-old, drag queen or not.

 _You never told him your age_ , his traitorous brain supplied, as though that made it any better.

Ripping up Crowley’s business card, Castiel tossed the shreds of paper into the trash on his way up the stairs.

He wasn’t going to be calling him any time soon.

**December 7 th**

It took nearly a week of avoiding him, before Crowley decided to corner him at The End.

He was being cautious, avoiding the floor whenever possible, and though it pained him to do so, whenever he was on stage, Castiel avoided eye contact with Crowley at all costs. He didn’t look over at the bar at all, if he could help it. He was _so careful_ …

But he probably shouldn’t have assumed that Crowley wouldn’t just come to _him_.

Cas was in full drag, heading back to his changeroom on a busy Saturday night, his feet aching from his platform boots, and he wanted nothing more than to wipe his makeup off, get out of that strappy silk negligee and into some sweatpants, so he could go take a nice, long bath and see his baby brother. And as he ducked past the door that said “Talent” into the back hallway, he wasn’t anticipating anyone to follow him, especially since he trusted Alistair (first mistake) to do his job.

It wasn’t until he was spun around by a strange hand on his shoulder, and backed up against a wall in the middle of the empty hallway, that he realized he should have been a little more alert.

“I’m starting to feel a little unwanted,” Crowley told him, boxing him against the wall, one hand pressed flat beside Castiel’s head. Cas’ heart picked up quick, beating loudly in his ears, matching the pounding bass from the main floor of the club, dance music muted but filtering in through the closed door. “Have you been avoiding me, love? Why?”

Cas inhaled sharply, his mind humming with trepidation, but his senses suddenly flooded with the scent of Crowley’s cologne. Of woodsmoke and whiskey, earthy and manly and sexy, oh _god_ — just the smell of him made Cas weak in the knees, made him almost forget that _this_ , this _right here_ was the whole reason he was avoiding him in the first place.

“You terrify me,” Cas answered truthfully, his voice trembling.

Crowley grinned widely, a salacious, provocative smile that had Castiel’s skin prickling with goosebumps, as he said simply, intimately, “Good.”

Christ, he couldn’t take this. “Why are you even bothering with me?” Castiel asked, his hands balling into fists at his sides, and his legs trembled, not just from the strain for his shoes, either.

He was pinned there, trapped between the wall and Crowley’s broad, barrel chest, and he couldn’t decide if he loved it or hated it. He knew this wasn’t good, it wasn’t healthy the way this man held so much sway over him, but he longed for it all the same. Cas stared at him helplessly, at his deep, soulful eyes, his broody lips, his thick beard, his sharp jaw… and he felt subsumed. He both wanted someone to walk through that door— Alistair, Guy, Lilith, anyone who could free him, and wanted Crowley to take him away, somewhere safe, private, and far from his conscience, far from the rational part of him that knew this was wrong.

“I told you already, and I loathe to repeat myself.” Crowley lifted his other hand, the one that wasn’t pressed into the wall next to Castiel’s head, and flattened his palm against Cas’ sternum, against the flossy fabric of his spaghetti strapped dress. He dragged his hand down, whispering against Cas’ dress, and held Castiel’s gaze as he began to roll up the hem, past Cas’ thigh’s, over his panties, until he reached bare skin.

“But I suppose,” Crowley breathed, more brazen now than he ever was before, leering down at Cas’ exposed body, before shoving his thigh between Castiel’s bared legs, pressing up against Cas’ groin. Of all the days for him not to tuck, Cas thought as he threw his head back with a gasp, his eyes shuttering as a wave of pleasure overtook him, as Crowley rode his thigh against Cas’ quickly stiffening cock, murmuring against his ear, “I have a soft spot for beautiful, broken things.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cas asked, his breath hitching, barely cognizant of _what_ he was asking as Crowley ducked his head into the juncture of his throat, dragging his lips against Castiel’s bare collarbone. There was something, something about what he’d just said that seemed off, that seemed—god, he couldn’t _think_ , he couldn’t hope to think!

Because Crowley was thrusting against him, Castiel riding his thigh, and Cas could _feel_ his hard cock, thick and vicious and so much larger than his own, straining against Crowley’s slacks and grinding into his hip. He was kissing his neck, pulling Cas’ long, synthetic hair out of the way so he could nibble a trail of love bites up his throat, his breathing loud and almost frantic in his ear. And he was groping at Cas’ chest, rolling Castiel’s nipple between his fingers and stealing the air from his lungs.

It was too much.

It was so _fucking_ hot.

“Do you want me to stop?” Crowley asked, his voice deeper, gravellier, and Castiel shook his head no—

God help him, _no_ , he didn’t.

Cas moaned, a particularly rough thrust of Crowley’s hips hitting him just right, and reached forwards with shaky hands, grabbing Crowley’s ass firmly and hauling his hips forwards. He bucked his own hips, humping Crowley’s thigh, chasing his own pleasure, the heat that was oozing down his legs, that was pooling in his spine, making sparks dance behind his eyes. And Crowley…

“You’re _perfect_ ,” he growled against Castiel’s throat, pumping his hips in time with Castiel’s, grinding against him urgently, “just like I knew you would be. Castiel—”

Crowley lifted his head, and grabbed Cas’ face in both hands, looking him straight in the eye, staring through him, his cheeks flushed handsomely, his eyes dark green this close, and heated.

Oh, everything was so _hot_. The air between them was sweltering, and as Crowley leaned closer, their noses bumping, panting against each others mouth, their breath licked at Castiel’s cheeks like the tendrils of a flame. He was moving on pure instinct now, his hips moving of their own accord, grinding his cock, harder than he’d ever been before and separated only by a thin layer of nylon and lace, against Crowley’s Armani covered thigh. It was almost embarrassing how wanton he was, high, reedy noises erupting from his throat, his hands grappling desperately against Crowley’s rear.

But Crowley didn’t seem to mind. No, on the contrary, he _loved_ it. This was the most undone Castiel had ever seen him, his brows knitted together as he thrust against Castiel’s hip, one of his hands trailing back down Cas’ torso to rub at his cock through his tights.

“Oh!” Cas cried, biting his lip to keep from making too much noise, but Crowley dove in with a growl, sucking his lower lip back out from between his teeth and kissing him, open mouthed and filthy. He sucked on Castiel’s tongue as he fondled his cock, shoving his hand down Cas’ nylons and jerking him off in earnest, Cas’ knees buckling, held up now only by the strength of Crowley’s thigh.

“Has anyone ever touched you like this, Castiel?” Crowley rumbled against Cas’ spit slick lips, his hand a firm pressure around Castiel’s cock, stroking him from root to tip, banishing any rational thought from his brain, and Cas could only shake his head vehemently, _no_ , because no one else _had._ Only _him_ , only _Crowley_ , right now in the back hall of his workplace, where anyone could walk in on them, see them, interrupt them—

“Crowley,” he whined, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to breathe, Crowley’s hand like salve on a burn, sending pleasure coursing through his blood, shuddering through his bones.

“That’s it, poppet,” Crowley’s voice was like honey, sweet and syrupy in his ear, and when he kissed him again, Castiel sobbed against his lips, his hips trembling, his abdominals spasming, the pressure in his groin building, swelling, and it was _hot,_ it was _so hot_ , and he was gonna to come right there, in Crowley’s fist, spill all over his fingers, because of _him_ , because—oh _fuck,_ he was coming, he—

Crowley flattened him against the wall as he came, his voice muffled against Crowley’s lips as he moaned, long and loud and pitiful, his fingers tangling in the lapels of Crowley’s jacket, pulling him closer, needing him _closer_. Wave after wave of white-hot pleasure crashed over him, his hips jerking, come soaking through his nylons, but Crowley worked him through it, pulling on his cock until Castiel pleaded him to stop, too much, oh _god_ …

“ _Yes,_ Castiel, that’s it,” Crowley soothed, kissing him as he came down, pulling his come covered hand from Cas’ nylons and unzipping his own fly.

Castiel looked between them, at the mess he’d made, at the absolute state of him, just in time to see Crowley pull himself from his pants, and he gasped, his fingers gripping his lapels even tighter. He was so big, girthy and red and angry, with a fat head and thick veins that made Castiel’s heart stop, his mouth water. Crowley wasted no time wrapping a firm hand around himself, stripping his cock with practised ease, and Cas whimpered pressing his forehead to Crowley’s content to just watch.

“You like this, don’t you?” Crowley asked, his voice breathy and rough, and Castiel nodded, watching raptly as Crowley swelled even larger in his fist, his cock flexing, “I knew you would. I _knew_ it, you’re perfect. Look at what you do to me, look how hard you make me, baby boy.”

“Fuck…” Cas whined, and without thinking he dropped Crowley’s lapel, knocking his hand out of the way, and wrapping his own, his thin fingers dwarfed by the absolute _size_ of him, around Crowley’s cock.

Crowley hissed between his teeth, both of his hands, including the one still covered in Castiel’s come, rising to grab Cas’ head, cupping his cheeks in his palm as he kissed him deep, his tongue plundering Cas’ lips. He was so heavy, a thick weight in Cas’ hand as he tried to replicate what Crowley had done to him, to bring him off with quick, tight strokes. He was hard as iron, velvety soft and burning, so different from Castiel, but perfect, and Cas wanted nothing more than to make him come, to take him apart, to make him _happy­_ —

“That’s it, baby, that’s it.” Crowley’s hips started moving in counterpoint to Castiel’s fist, and Crowley tilted his head down once more, their foreheads shoved against each other, Crowley making him look at his hand flying over his cock. “Look at you,” he said, his voice rumbling, almost too low to hear, and if Castiel hadn’t just come, that might have done it, “look at what you’re doing to me. You’re going to make me come Cas, on your legs, your stomach, your pretty dress. I’m going to come all over you, would you like that?”

He swelled in Cas’ hand, and Castiel whispered a pitiful, “Yes!”

“Come on, come on—” his hips moving faster, his hands sliding down Castiel’s back, grabbing at his ass, his thigh’s, his hips, and Cas preened at the encouragement, his grip tightening, his hand moving faster, urged on by Crowley’s brazen groans of, “Yes, baby boy, _baby boy_ —”

Castiel gasped as Crowley erupted in his hand, pulsing as he shot against Castiel’s bared stomach, his come splattering everywhere Crowley said it would. Crowley dropped his head to Castiel’s throat and groaned as he came, a deep and pained sound, one that sent bolts of desire shooting down Castiel’s spine, one he wanted to hear again, and _soon_. He kept moving, fascinated as come bubble between his fingers, dribbling down Crowley’s shaft, his cock still as hard and intimidating as it was just a moment ago.

“Enough, enough,” Crowley begged with a laugh, prying Castiel’s hand away from his cock and wasting no time tucking himself away in his pants, “my, you’re eager, aren’t you?”

Cas smiled, laughing with him, though he didn’t know why. He was winded, frazzled, and a wreck—even when he unrolled his dress to cover the mess Crowley had made of him, he could still feel his spend, tacky as it cooled, against his skin. He wiped his hand off on the inside of his thighs (his tights were ruined anyways), and startled when Crowley brushed a cloth against his face.

“I made a bit of a mess of you,” Crowley explained, wiping the come off of Cas’ face with his pocket square, a sated, easy smile pulling at his lips that Castiel was helpless to return, “but you are a vision, aren’t you?”

Melting under the praise, swimming in the afterglow of the first orgasm he didn’t bring himself to, Castiel leaned into Crowley’s touch, pleased when he tucked away the pocket square but kept close. Not knowing what to say, but comfortable enough to be silent, Castiel let Crowley crowd him against the wall again, his lips parting as Crowley kissed him, softly this time, his mouth moving sensually against Castiel’s.

He’d never been kissed like this, Cas mused. Not leisurely, softly, like he was something precious, and he _liked_ it. Even more than the heated kisses they’d shared just moments before. The way Crowley was caressing his cheek, gently pulling him close by the curve of his waist, whispering against his lips that he was beautiful, _so beautiful_ …

Wait.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Cas said when Crowley pulled away.

Crowley frowned, and tilted his head, like he didn’t quite remember what he’d said. But when Castiel just stared at him, huffing a teasing little laugh, he seemed to catch on. And Cas didn’t mean it to sound like an interrogation, but the way Crowley stepped back, his easy, satiated expression slipping away, replaced with something domineering and impassive, didn’t bode well.

“Don’t play dumb,” he told him, holding Castiel at arms length, “you know.”

“I don’t think I do,” Cas insisted, and suddenly, he began to feel cold, like a distance had just sprung up between them, and he didn’t know _why_.

It was a simple question.

“That’s because you don’t want to,” Crowley told him, his voice clipped and severe, “there’s a difference.”

What was happening? What had changed from one moment to the next? He was confused, hurt, confused about why he was hurt. Cas curled in on himself and Crowley let him, wrapped his arms around himself and demanded, “Then explain it to me.”

In retrospect, he should have just let it go.

Crowley backed away, shoving his hands in his pockets with a nasty sneer. “Do you think it makes you a grown up to force yourself to suffer, like a martyr?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question, “It certainly doesn’t make you interesting, Castiel.”

He straightened, his spine stiffening against the wall as the very breath was knocked from his lungs.

“You want to know what I meant? Fine. I meant that you’re beautiful, and you know it, but on the inside?” Crowley looked him up and down, disgust evident on his face, in his posture, “You’re as composed as shattered glass—you can hardly consolidate what’s in your mind with what’s on the outside, and it tears you apart, doesn’t it?”

Castiel cowed away from him, from the venomous words dripping past his lips, from lips that had only just kissed his so tenderly, that had whispered sweet things into his ear. His heart dropped, his stomach twisting with guilt, shame, _you knew better, why did you_ do _this? Why did you let this_ happen _!?_

“Yes, I believe it does.”

Oh god, he was still _talking_. Where was this coming from? Castiel tried to ignore him, but he couldn’t, and every vicious syllabus hurt the worse for what they just did. He curled in on himself, stared down at the floor, and willed himself not to be sick, even as nausea burned in his gut, bile rising in his throat as he _hated_ himself, was _disgusted_ with himself!

“But no matter how hard you try to hide that jumbled mess of rage and melancholy that knots itself in your belly every waking hour of your days, it’s a fool’s errand. It bleeds through the cracks—I saw it in your eyes the first night we met.” Crowley stepped forwards, his leather shoes clacking off the floor, and Castiel lifted his head not of his own volition, but because this horrible _stranger_ , this _Svengali_ forced him to, his chin gripped tight between his thumb and forefinger. Crowley made him look at him, moved his head when Cas tried to look away, and when he caught his gaze, even as Castiel glared at him, his eyes hazy with angry, hateful tears, Crowley murmured, “And I’ve wanted it for myself ever since.”

Humiliated.

He was _humiliated_.

How could he ever have thought that this man wanted anything more from him than his body?

He was nothing, like Crowley said. Like he was saying, still.

He was washed up at eighteen, a useless freak with a pretty face who would amount to nothing, and would die a nothing.

Crowley wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t heard before, Castiel knew in his heart it was true.

But Christ, did it hurt to hear it like this.

“Go to hell,” Castiel hissed.

“Already been,” Crowley replied, “didn’t agree with me.”

To their right, a door slammed open, and Crowley released Castiel’s chin like he’d been burned. They looked over, and Castiel wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry when he saw Guy standing there, wearing a kimono, a wig cap, and not much else, with an aluminum baseball bat gripped tight in one hand.

“Get the _fuck_ _away from him_!” Guy bellowed, brandishing the bat threateningly as he stalked towards him, and even Crowley, for all his bravado, knew better than to take on a six-foot drag queen, in heels, with a weapon. He shot Castiel one last look of thinly veiled contempt, before stalking out of the hall, the door slamming shut behind him.

Then he was gone, and Castiel fell apart. The tears spilled onto his cheeks, dripping down his chin onto the floor. He blubbered once, a throaty, angry cry that ripped from his chest, before he crumpled onto the floor, sobbing into his fists.

“Oh, Cassie,” Guy sighed, throwing the bat to the floor with a dull metal clang, and hurrying to his side. He dropped onto his knees and pulled Castiel into his arms, letting him fold up against his chest, his ribs heaving with the force of his cries.

There was no telling how long they sat there, Guy petting his back and whispering soothing nonsense, while Castiel wept in his lap. It felt like an eternity, and all Castiel wanted was to curl up and disappear. He was mortified, angry at Crowley and even more so at himself, but most of all, he felt disgusting. Filthy and used, lower than dirt, and he knew it was all his fault.

He knew better. After he fucked up and went to dinner with Crowley, he _knew_ better! He’d done so well, he’d managed to avoid him entirely, but one chance meeting—not even, Crowley ambushed him in an empty hallway at his _work_ —and he folded like a cheap deck of cards.

Lilith came back at some point, probably wondering where all her performers were, though Cas didn’t see her. He was still buried in Guy’s chest, his long black wig shielding him from everything else.

“Do I need to call the police?” she asked, and Castiel broke down into another bout of sobs.

Guy shushed him softly, his long, thin hands clutching him even tighter. “I don’t think so,” he said, jostling Castiel gently as he asked, “Would you like us to call the police, Cassie?”

“No!” he cried, shaking his head, wracked with a full body shiver at the mere implication he would have to retell every detail of what had just transpired to the cops.

“No,” Guy repeated, before adding, “but if you see Castiel’s super fan out there? Get Alistair to kick his rotten ass to the curb.”

“I knew that guy was a fucking putz,” Lilith snapped, and then she was kneeling right behind Cas, her hands joining Guy’s on his back, rubbing up and down his ribs. “Can we move you to the dressing room, sweetie?”

Gulping in a huge breath, Cas nodded, lifting his head but keeping his eyes on the ground. He knew what he looked like; he didn’t need to see them seeing _him_.

The three of them worked in tandem to pull him to his feet, his ankles collapsing from the strain of his platform boots, worn so long his calves ached horribly. They shuffled him into the green room, deposited him onto the couch, and locked the door behind them.

“You poor thing,” Lilith cooed, hopping onto the couch next to him and pulling him closer, until his head rested on her shoulder, “you’re okay now, I promise. You’re safe.”

Guy was busy unlacing his boots, and when they hit the floor one by one, thumping loudly, Castiel sighed in relief. “Thank you,” he murmured, opening his eyes just enough to see Guy smile at him, rubbing his ankles to soothe the strain.

“What happened?” Lilith asked Guy, not him.

Smart. Cas didn’t think he’d be able to tell her, anyways.

“I don’t know the whole situation,” Guy said, moving on to Castiel’s other ankle, “I heard them out in the hall, but it sounded consensual, I—damn it, I should have gone out there immediately, but I didn’t know it was _Cas_! I thought it was just a couple of clubbers going at it, but then I heard him say Castiel’s name…”

“It _was_ consensual,” Cas murmured, clapping a hand over his face so he wouldn’t have to look at them, so they couldn’t see—

“Until it wasn’t?” Lilith supplied, without an ounce of judgement.

Cas huffed, his lower lip trembling. “I don’t know,” he moaned, turning his head into her shoulder, hiding behind his hair, “until after? I don’t—fuck, I’m so _stupid_!”

“You’re not stupid.” Guy joined them on the couch, tugging on Castiel’s shoulder to pull him away from Lil. The dipped his fingers under Castiel’s wig, unsticking the glue and dislodging his pins, before taking it off his head. “There’s that pretty face,” he said, placing Castiel’s hiding place on the arm of the couch, and now he had to _look_ at them.

But they weren’t gawking at him in disgust, like he expected them to. They looked worried, but they weren’t horrified with him. On the contrary; they looked at him the same way they always did. Nothing about that had changed.

That helped to soothe him a little, and he relaxed a bit, leaning against the back of the couch.

“You don’t need to tell us what happened,” Lilith said, running her nails through the wild tuft of hair atop his head, “but we need to be sure you’re okay. Are you hurt anywhere?”

He shook his head. No, he wasn’t hurt… not physically. Crowley had taken great care of him in that respect.

“I think Mr. Monopoly was just being a fucking dick,” Guy said, not to Cas but to Lilith, though Castiel huffed a laugh at how truthful that was.

“He asked me if I wanted him to stop,” Cas murmured, staring at his hands, trying to ignore the stains on his dress, and the way just the sight of them made his stomach turn, “I didn’t. I didn’t want him to stop.”

Lilith grabbed his hands, clasping them in hers. “That doesn’t matter!” she said, ducking her head so she could look at his face, “he’s like twenty years older than you, Cas! He’s a fucking adult, and you’re a goddamned teenager. He should never have put you in that position in the first place!”

“Lil, cool it,” Guy hissed, wrapping an arm around Cas’ shoulders when he started to tremble, a sob welling in his throat, “what she’s trying to say—and failing miserably at—is you are not at fault, here. This is on him, not you. Whatever happened, it _obviously_ hurt you, and that’s not okay. But it’s not your fault.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Cas moaned, wishing he’d done everything different. If he had, he’d be home by now, in the bath relaxing, instead of sitting there, covered in the evidence of what he’d let Crowley do to him, having a conversation he didn’t want to have, “I don’t want to see him again, I can’t—I don’t trust him, I don’t trust _myself_ , he was so awful, I—”

“No worries there,” Lilith said, letting Cas curl back into her side, “he’s not stepping foot in here again.”

Cas huffed in disbelief. “He spends more money here than everyone else, combined,” he said, the weight of the evening starting to settle in his bones, his mind beginning to quiet from pure exhaustion, and it was a welcome change, “you don’t need to do that, Lil.”

“I don’t care if he single-handedly paid our rent every month!” she snapped, her grip on his shoulder tightening until Guy hushed her, reminding her to calm the fuck down, “We managed before him, we can manage after. You’re more important than fucking Scrooge McDuck.”

“I’m sorry, Cassie,” Guy muttered behind him, “I didn’t realize he was such bad news, I—”

“It’s not your fault,” Cas interjected, reaching back blindly with one hand until Guy grabbed it, lacing their fingers together and squeezing comfortingly.

It wasn’t his fault, but they were wrong. It wasn’t Crowley’s, either.

It was _Castiel’s_.

**December 10 th**

Crowley wasn’t at his show, for the first time ever.

Cas expected to feel relieved, but despite Lilith’s repeated insistence that Crowley was just a sick, twisted predator, and Guy’s reassurances that what had happened the other night was solely the fault of the older man, he didn’t.

In the part of him he kept to himself, that he only ever showed to one other person, to Crowley, all he felt was let down, and abandoned.

**December 25 th**

Jack was sick.

He needed a doctor visit that Cas couldn’t afford, and he’d ran out of time to pick up extra shifts. The End had their Christmas eve show last night, he barely made enough to cover their back bills, much less a hospital visit, on Christmas Day.

And he was far too proud to ask for money, not that there was anyone to lend it. Lilith ran the bar on razor thin margins, so slim that their Christmas bonus was a bottle of wine (sparkling, for Castiel), and an IOU for 50$. Guy was just as broke as Cas, even without a baby to care for, and Alistair, with all his drug money, was not the kind of person you wanted to owe a favour to. With Cas’ luck, Alistair would wrangle him into a bank heist without even knowing.

He’d pawned everything of value they owned over the past six months, just to fill in the gaps and try to make a dent in their debt. The grand piano in the foyer was the first to go, despite the memories it held of his mother, and their time spent together at its bench. The inexplicable works of art collecting dust in the attic, the antique furniture, his grandmothers jewelry, the good china… all of it, Castiel had slowly trundled off to the brokers, taking what he could get, just needing the cold, hard cash to get them through to the next month.

There was nothing left of value to sell… except for his violin.

It wasn’t a Stradivarius or anything ridiculous like that, but his Johannes Köhr K500 was his baby. It was the violin his mother had bought him when he first got accepted into Julliard, replacing the hand-me-down Mendini with the warped neck he’d been using since he was 7. It was his prized possession, something he had put his blood, sweat and tears into working with, and the one thing that was keeping him sane those days.

On nights when he was worked to the bone, when he was drowning under his responsibilities and completely fried, he knew he could come home, pick up his violin, and bow until he felt human again. When Jack couldn’t sleep, or his grandfather came back from the bar raging about someone or something that had happened, fuming over another fruitless memoir until the early hours of the morning, Castiel played Chaconne to quiet everyone down.

His violin was his only friend, his one last solace.

But that night, while Jack sobbed in his bed, his little face red from exertion, so hungry but refusing to eat, Cas told his grandpa he was going out. At ten to midnight on Christmas Day, Castiel gathered his violin, his sanity, and headed out on his bike to the 24-hour pawn shop on 14th.

The entire ride there, Castiel barely kept it together. The weight of his case strapped to his back felt like the world on his shoulder, the sky pressing down on him, into the mud of his messy, fruitless life, and he willed back his tears with herculean strength. Locking his bike out front, he haggled with the midnight pawn shop clerk for the umpteenth time that month, there so often the man knew him by name.

“I’m sorry, Castiel,” he said, leaning over the glass counter top and placing his violin back in its case, “but I can’t take this. Do you realize how much I’ve already leant you? No.”

And there was no point in arguing. Even the pawnbrokers were done with his shit, and Castiel was left completely lost, at the end of his rope, standing in the middle of Logan Circle with the prostitutes that milled about there, at midnight.

What was he doing? he asked himself as he sat at the foot of the monument, his violin sitting at his feet. It was dark out, cold, the snow just beginning to stick to the ground as it fell past the somber, flickering streetlights. His leather jacket wasn’t made for this kind of weather, and his breath fogged in the air as he tried to keep it together, tried not to break down and cry in the middle of the park. He was frozen, or he knew he was, at least, but he didn’t feel it. There was nothing, just a dull, aching disappointment, carving a hole in the bottom of his stomach, where everything he loved and cared for was swallowed up and lost.

He’d tried so hard; how did his mother make it look so _easy_? She’d managed to support them all, herself included, without breaking a sweat. And he’d taken it all for granted, his music lessons, his fancy school, his multiple band practises. The clothes, the make up, the hobbies picked up and forgotten. The late nights of laying beside her on the couch, just talking about everything and nothing. The smell of her hair, the way she laughed, her smile…

It was all for her. Cas wanted to do this for _her_ , to take care of them the way she would, if she could, but he was failing miserably. He just couldn’t hack it, he couldn’t make ends meet, and now Jack was sick, maybe _dying_ , and it was _his fault_.

There was nothing he could do.

He missed his mom.

He just wanted his _mom_.

The women who were milling around glared at him as he pulled his violin from its case, lancing the bow across the strings, his frigid fingers stiff but quick to warm. And Cas, at a loss, did what he always did when he was up the creek without a paddle—he stood up from the snowbank he found himself in, and played.

Albinoni’s Adagio in G minor, haunting and perfect, reverberated under his fingers, quickly filling the night air. The somber melody, one of his mother’s favorites, quickly chased the others from the park, their worry that he would draw the local’s attentions, maybe bring the police, quite a real possibility. But Castiel didn’t care, let the cops come. What were they gonna do? Arrest him for playing the violin?

It would be just his luck.

Soon, he was alone in the frozen park, his throat tight as he played like he never had before in his life. His lower lip trembled, tears finally tumbling down his cheeks, the desperateness of his situation finally smacking into him with all the force of a runaway train, bowling him over. His bow slid across the strings, a smooth legato, skipping from single to double, to quadruple stops, his fingers aching from the cold, his violin remonstrating the dry, frigid air, but he couldn’t stop.

If he stopped, he’d need to go back home, and decide whether he would wait one more night, and risk his brother’s life, or bring Jack to a hospital he couldn’t afford, and have him taken away from him once and for all.

It was too much for him. It was too much for anyone to decide, but for _him,_ a fucking eighteen-year-old kid, who had lost so much in so little time, it was more than that. It was devastating, a ruin he wasn’t sure he could recover from.

So, he played on. He played until lights went on across the street, until people yelled at him from their windows to shut the hell up, until his fingers cramped and his body protested the cold, unyielding air from his lungs.

Until a car rolled to a stop in front of him.

It was dark black and fancy, a Bentley Brooklands with a driver, and as the window rolled down, Castiel let the bow slip from his fingers, not believing his eyes.

Because there was Crowley, the man he had never wanted to see again, glaring at him from the rear passenger seat.

“Get in the car,” he snapped, and it wasn’t a request.

Cas picked up his bow, gesturing to the open case at his feet, and lied a pitiful excuse, “I’m working.”

“And I’m buying.” Crowley kicked open the door, and shuffled to the far seat, telling him to, “Get in.”

Cas stared him down, trembling now not just from the cold, from the pain, but from fear. He couldn’t get in that car. Crowley’s words bounced around in his head, his vile undressing of Castiel at their last meeting, however truthful it may have been, still stinging like salt in a wound. But more than that, Castiel didn’t trust himself… if he got into that car with him, he didn’t know what he would do.

But when a group of men began walking up the street towards him, yelling, their fists balled up and looking for a fight, he relented.

Better the devil you know, he thought as he climbed into the car.

Crowley glowered at him from the opposite seat as the driver (Brady, Cas remembered from last time) sped off. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, clearly trying hard to restrain himself from going off on Cas.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Cas replied curtly.

“Did you get fired?”

“No.”

“Then what in the bloody hell has you out here in the middle of the night!? Do you understand what part of town you’re in?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here.” Cas quirked a brow at Crowley’s stunned expression, and asked, “Why are you?”

“Why do you think?” he replied, but his expression had softened, as did his voice, “You need money this bad?”

He’s a snake, Castiel reminded himself, but his concern seemed so sincere. “Jack is—" he started, little understanding why he was even bothering to talk to him, but he was probably the _only_ person he could talk to, the only one who truly _listened_ to him, despite it all, “My brother, he’s sick. The clinic I took him to, they didn’t give him anything because they said it would pass on its own, that it was probably a bug. But it hasn’t, it’s been getting worse, and I spent the last of my cash just going there in the first place. I can’t—”

Crowley scooted closer to him, and when Castiel didn’t flinch away, too exhausted to put up a fight, he laid a comforting, familiar hand on Cas’ knee. “What’s wrong with him?” Crowley asked, “Specifically?”

Cas shrugged his shoulders. “He’s not eating, and he’s losing weight fast. He’s tired constantly, sometimes I can hardly wake him, and he’s had this diaper rash for weeks that just won’t go away, no matter what I do. And when he’s awake, he just cries.” There came the tears again, angry and unbidden as the scorched their way down his flushed cheeks, “Scared cries, not normal baby cries, I don’t—oh, god…”

“He doesn’t have a pediatrician, does he?”

Cas shook his head.

“Is he urinating more frequently? How many times a day are you changing his diaper?”

The way he asked his questions, clinically and with practised ease, reminded Cas that he _was_ a doctor. “I’ve honestly lost count,” he replied, taking the handkerchief when Crowley handed it to him and dabbed his cheeks.

“Sounds like diabetes.” Crowley said, and without giving Cas a moment to respond, his brain stuttering at the word diabetes, and all the added expense and risk that went along with it, he declared, “He needs a full examination to be sure.” He leaned forwards, tapped on the window between them and the driver, and when it cracked open, said, “Brady, take us to 1753 Arcady.” Cas’ address. He then turned back to Cas, and told him, “You’re going to grab Jack, then we’re driving you to Bethesda General.”

“No, no—” That wasn’t happening, no, they’d take him away!

“Relax,” Crowley said, waving away his protests, “it’s my hospital; I’ll foot the bill.”

“No!” That was worse! He did not, in anyway want to be indebted to _this_ man.

“Stop it, you’re being insulting.”

“ _You’re_ being insulting,” Castiel snapped back, his heart pounding, “I’m not some charity case, I—”

“This isn’t a hand out.” Crowley turned to him fully, grasping his hands, his touch deceptively soft. “I’m not in the business of making donations to those who can’t manage to keep their heads above water. I want to make a deal…”

_Here it comes._

“You and I enter an agreement, of sorts,” Crowley said, those dark, melancholy eyes catching his attention, and drawing him in, “and in return, I will help you financially. You can go back to school; you won’t need to work near as hard and you’ll have more time to spend with your brother. I know I hurt you, the last time we met, and for that I am sorry. I spoke out of line. But I think this could be just what you need, right now.”

It sounded too good to be true, but even that apology, so sincere and delivered with a somber, sorrowful gaze, made him wary. “What kind of agreement?” Cas asked.

“The kind we don’t talk about.” Crowley released his hands then, sitting back in his seat and pulling a cigarette from his case, “I’ll call you when I want you, and you can do whatever your heart desires in the interim. But when I do call for you, I expect you to deliver.”

Cas shook his head, feeling overwhelmed. “I don’t…”

Crowley lit the cigarette with a snap of his lighter, the embers crackling as he took a long, deep drag. “Do you know what happens to a baby with untreated diabetes?”

Cas shook his head wordlessly.

“Ketoacidosis.” A big exhale, smoke filling the cabin. “Ketones in the blood can put him into the ICU, and the higher his blood sugar, the higher chances of him going into a diabetic coma.” Another puff, another cloud, burning Castiel’s eyes and obscuring his vision. “You don’t need to agree, Cas. I’m not going to hold your brother’s life over your head to get to you, I will make sure your brother gets the best care, regardless. But if you find my conditions amendable… I can make your life so much easier.” Through the smoke, the streetlamps as they passed illuminated his face, Crowley’s expression menacing, and longing, and Cas, despite knowing better, knowing what this man was capable of, felt that familiar tinge of longing, the one that made the feelings of uselessness, the memories of being abandoned and berated, fade away, as he said, “And I can’t overstate just how desperately I want you.”

“Why me?” Castiel breathed voice to the only question in his head.

“I’ve told you a hundred times,” Crowley answered, without a hint of insincerity, exhaling a cloud of bilious smoke, “I find you mesmerising, Castiel. Do we have a deal?”

And there was nothing for it.

He was desperate, and out of options.

He said, “Yes.”

Crowley grinned diabolically, “Do I still frighten you, little dove?”

“Yes,” Cas whispered.

“Once we start this, there’s no going back, do you understand?” Crowley put out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him, “You needn’t answer right away; you can take the night to—”

“No.”

Cas crawled across the seat, and sealed his fate with a kiss.

It was familiar, Crowley’s lips warm and dry, his breath tasting like hand rolled tobacco and whiskey neat, and Castiel’s skin immediately prickled in a rolling flush. With a pleased groan, Crowley pulled him into his lap with surprising force, the vigour of his touch unlike any that they shared that night in the hallway.

It scalded him from the inside out.

It made him feel _alive_.

When they broke apart, they’d pulled up at Cas’ house.

“I’m only eighteen,” Castiel confessed in the silence of the cabin.

“I don’t care,” Crowley rumbled from his chest, commanding, “Go get Jack.”

Turns out, Crowley was right—it was diabetes. Type 1 diabetes, and they got him into the ICU in the nick of time. After the night blurred by into the early morning, nurses and doctors stopping in to tell him about the disease, about how to care for his brother, from insulin shots, to blood sugar monitoring, to waking up multiple times a night for the first few weeks just to track his sugar levels, and multiple repeat checkups scheduled for the next six months, Castiel found himself staring down at an invoice. One that had been paid in full, by an anonymous benefactor.

“Somebody out there likes you,” the nurse who had handed it to him said with a well-meaning smile, and Castiel smiled back, even though inside, he felt like he was dying.

She didn’t know just how menacing her words were.

She didn’t know what he had gotten himself into.

But as he sat beside Jack’s little basinet in the ICU, watching him sleep soundly for the first time in weeks, his hand flattened on his little chest just to feel his heart beat, Castiel knew it was something he had to do. And if it meant that he got to keep his brother, safe and sound and healthy and _his_ , then he would take anything the world could throw at him.

No matter what.

He’d do it for Jack.

He’d do it for his mom.

He could be brave, once.

**December 30 th**

A notary dropped off the contract the next morning.

Sitting at Castiel’s dinner table, the unassuming man cleaned the spots from reading glasses as Cas read over the contract that would change his life.

The rules were… intricate, and intense. But, Cas mused, fair. From what he gathered, he could back out at basically anytime, and all he’d be sacrificing was his financial security. The contract was written well, every inch of it ironclad, but he had a little bit of leeway, and it didn’t read as though he would be giving up _complete_ control over his body, at least.

And in return, he would be getting a guaranteed 5000$ a month, full-coverage health insurance, and bonuses for surprise or emergency expenses.

All Cas needed to do was keep his distance in public, come when Crowley called him, and be willing to perform any of the agreed upon acts Cas got to stipulate in the contract.

He balked as he looked over the checklist of acts, ones he needed to pick from. None were non-negotiable, and yes, he had a safe-word, but there were so many he didn’t know. He’d never had sex before, outside of a haphazard hand job he gave Benny Lafitte behind the bleachers after a game, or the time he blew his bandmates in the backseat of Liam’s Mustang... and of course, that night, with Crowley. He didn’t know what half of them meant, and he voiced as much to the notary, expecting him to roll his eyes, or question if he was at the right house, speaking to the correct Castiel Kline.

But the notary, with a tone so non-judgemental it gave him pause, explained them in clinical detail.

“Are you feeling overwhelmed?” the notary asked, in a surprising show of compassion. And when Castiel nodded, told him, “I’ve worked with Mr. McCleod for years. He may be a deviant, but he keeps his promises, and if you’re worried that he might hurt you, take advantage of you? He won’t.”

The notary reached across the table, tapping the contract, the folder of neatly printed, bone white paper. “He will hold to anything in that contract,” he said, “so you and I need to go through it with a fine-toothed comb, just to make sure that whatever you need? You get.”

“I’m here for your sake,” the notary said, handing Castiel the pen, which he’d set upon the table in his frustration, “not Mr. McCleod. Let’s do this right.”

It helped.

Cas took the pen with a smile, trying to keep the fear from his face, his hands from trembling, as he signed away himself on the dotted line.


End file.
